


Strange Birds

by Raziel



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: F/M, Lord M - Freeform, POV William Lamb 2nd Viscount Melbourne, Raziel - Freeform, Vicbourne, Whitehall Series - Freeform, psalm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:20:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 96,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raziel/pseuds/Raziel
Summary: Reminder from earlier works: The part of Cameron is played by British actor Ben Robson, currently starring in TNT’s Animal Kingdom series.





	1. Chapter 1

**_In keeping with my very loose attempt to summarize the overall emotional theme of each story, 'Strange Birds' references the hauntingly beautiful song by Birdy and an absolutely mesmerizing[ video by Thorny Rose](https://youtu.be/P670ac9gIUo). I hope she does not object that I attribute to her the inspiration for this installment. And my tattoo._**

 

June 1845

Paris was changing as rapidly as every other metropolis. The heart of the city, those ancient streets of the Île de la Cité, were no longer safe even for young men seeking to prove their bravado. After the army had to intervene and put down riots by the poorest denizens of this blighted neighborhood Louis-Phillippe had taken some measures to improve conditions in his city. Paths along the river were paved and trees planted to shade these pleasant walkways, a vast new market was being build and roads constructed to join the Marais district with what was envisioned as a grand new shopping district. Brightly dressed prostitutes who had once strolled the arcades of the Palais-Royal were now herded into _maisons de tolerance_ and other areas less visible to the readily-outraged bourgeois.

William Lamb had experienced the best and the worst of the great city as a young man and had returned many times since as private citizen and politician. The unrest at the end of the last century had prevented a formal Grand Tour across Europe, with Paris its centerpiece, so he had not the benefit of a hired tutor bear-leading him for the purpose of instilling an appreciation of culture. Instead those early visits, in the company of his brothers and contemporaries, had been devoted to the pursuit of pleasure in all its forms.

Lord Melbourne was seated now at an outside table beside the Café Tortoni, a new establishment along the Boulevard des Italiens. The better-known Café Anglais was nearly the official meeting spot for expatriate Englishmen and visitors from the Isles. For his purposes, Lord Melbourne was content with a quieter, less populous spot.

A casual observer spying our Lord Melbourne would recognize the gentleman as English, certainly of the nobility, judging by the careless elegance of his bespoke tailoring and a most casual air of being confident of his place in the world. That observer would remark the unusually attractive appearance of this gentleman in his indeterminate middle years, no longer a callow youth but certainly not old. They might attribute this to a head of thick curling hair which the light breeze blew forward onto his temples, the dark locks threaded through with a fortunate silver instead of more plebeian grey, or the strong even profile with a pleasing masculine refinement. But such an observer was certain to consider that the English gentleman’s eyes were perhaps his most remarkable feature. These were startlingly beautiful, hooded and deep-set, a brilliant green hue framed by absurdly long lashes. That hypothetical observer might, even at a slight distance, be most taken by this gentleman’s expression, conveying a sweetness of disposition leavened by ready humor, those remarkable eyes always seeming to find amusement in all they surveyed.

If our watcher was in a position to recognize the subject of their scrutiny, they would know him to be the Second Viscount Melbourne. Formerly Home Secretary, then Prime Minister to two sovereigns, mentor to the young Queen Alexandrina even before she was crowned Victoria. And finally, in a role which unpredictably made him the darling of merchants’ wives and sighing shop-girls, the envy of his own male cohort, William Lamb became the second husband of the Queen.

Their May/December romance had once been regarded a source of potential scandal severe enough to bring down the Throne. Instead, with the fickle sentimentalism for which the English were renowned, Lord Melbourne had won the hearts of his countrymen, making him the most popular member of the extended royal family in generations.

Melbourne had not been considered a particularly strong or effective Prime Minister – except by those whose excesses he had deftly curtailed, and those who had benefited from his ability to build consensus and bridge divides. No man as disinterested in public acclaim as Lord Melbourne, or as steadfastly determined to hold a steadying middle course, would ever rise to the towering heights of fame reserved for a Pitt, elder or younger. Melbourne thought too deeply about all sides of every issue to ever be sure of a final answer, and was too likely to be sidetracked by the seduction of a novel new rebuttal to his own argument, to reach heights of fiery eloquence. Likewise, Melbourne cared too little for the exercise of power for its own sake, was too averse to personal scrutiny, too disinclined to press his own views, to indulge in soaring oratory which would have rendered him the powerful leading light of his generation, a position to which his intellect certainly entitled him.

Any recounting of his political past was a matter of supreme indifference to the crowds who thronged to cheer him in any procession, to the fond familiar affection with which he was greeted by common people in the streets as one of their own. If his peers harbored a certain jealousy that one of their own should be so elevated, the workingmen and women of the nation saw only a refreshing humility of manner and the fairy-tale romance about which a hundred popular songs were sung.

William Lamb – should those observing him be capable of prescience – was fated to be remembered by history for the successes and failures of his personal life, and it was the women in his life who would define him. His name was to be forever bookended by his first wife, the notorious Caroline Lamb, and his last, Queen Victoria. And that was to be the greatest disservice of all to those historians who would someday study the life of this remarkable man who bridged two eras as " _personagem histórico de charneira_."

**

Lord Melbourne was in Paris to meet, quite discreetly and unofficially, with Prime Minister Guizot and, on behalf of Louis-Phillipe, the young Duc d’Nemours . Her current head of government, Prime Minister Robert Peel had the Queen’s full faith and confidence, but Palmerston, taking advantage of their family connection, had poured just enough warning in Victoria’s ear that she now harbored some concerns about the strength and wisdom of their mutual defense treaty with France. The situation in Argentina was heating up; likewise, the continual conflict over Chinese ports, the millions tied up in opium trade, and Britain’s need to maintain its position of influence in the middle east were all at play in the continuing Great Game. The notion of British sailors being put in harm’s way to protect French commercial interests in South America didn’t sit well with the general population, raised to consider the French their primary foe.  _Would a small gesture of support now really offer a guarantee of reciprocity in the East? Even if Guizot’s life mission succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, politicians come and go. What security could the Crown have, that English blood spilled in the Río de la Plata would be repaid in kind after an inevitable change in government? Guizot was already harshly criticized by his own opposition for conceding too much to the British; what guarantee could there be that his promises would survive his political lifetime?_

Palmerston had accompanied Melbourne to Paris – although Melbourne suspected his brother-in-law would view it as quite the reverse circumstance – as had his brother Frederick, a cool diplomatic head much experienced in reading the winds of change. Peel knew of this most unofficial visit – Melbourne would not have come without at least his tacit support – and he likewise understood the necessity of ensuring commitments outlived the governments which made them. A constitutional monarchy might appear to have little real authority, but the monarchy was the sole unchanging constant in the life of a nation, when governments came and went, philosophies changed with each election. _Monarchies_ should _be unchanging, for the sake of stability. Except, perhaps, in France._ Melbourne secretly suspected the Citizen-King’s throne was not quite secure. He had long understood that when the people make kings, they can also unmake them.

Lord Melbourne was at the Café Tortoni, quite unattended in defiance of the security measures he himself had implemented after those early assassination attempts on Her Majesty, to meet his former ward Susan Cuénod, née Churchill, and their mutual friend Lady Branden. Susan and her husband had traveled from Geneva for a visit which, whether by chance or design, overlapped his own. Monsieur Cuénod was, Melbourne assumed, the driving force behind Susan’s determination to close out the trust he had settled on her to provide for her future.

The story of Susan was yet another destined to go unwritten, save perhaps by some resourceful and determined future historian. The infant girl had been taken in by Lady Ponsonby, Melbourne’s mother-in-law. Upon that lady’s death Caroline had taken her in, raising the girl as a near-daughter and favored companion. When Lord Melbourne journeyed back from Ireland to sit at his wife’s deathbed, in his grief he promised to care for her. Melbourne privately conceded he could have done no less. He might pretend nonchalance but knew himself to be sadly constricted by an innate sense of what honor required, and he could neither turn a foundling onto the parish, nor consign her to a life of menial labor when Caro had raised her to think of herself a girl of gentle birth. Melbourne knew the truth of her origins, of course, as did many of those in society, but the influence of the Spencer-Churchills and Marlboroughs ensured her origins remain obscure.

He had no real emotional attachment to the girl, neither paternal nor otherwise as some wags once insinuated, but neither could he forget the loving kindness she had shown not only his wife but his volatile, mentally challenged son, and knew himself to be too regrettably soft-hearted to turn his back or close his heart to her entirely. Failing to describe her circumstance to Victoria even in 1837, when their talks encompassed everything else under the sun, had been only one of Melbourne’s many missteps, but thankfully one which he had been able to later rectify. Victoria harbored a residual discomfort toward the girl – she was less able to be comfortable with a near-contemporary who maintained a prior claim to her Lord M than she was with the much-older Lady Branden – but made a concerted effort to accept her status on the periphery of Melbourne’s life.

Lady Branden had taken Susan off to the Continent a decade before and provided a casual chaperonage. Elizabeth Crosbie was perhaps the most genial of his former connections, now a buxom lady reaching her fiftieth summer, and if her protection had led to some misadventures – including near-elopement with a penniless, stateless prince – Susan had surprised them all by embracing a strict Protestantism and marrying this parson’s son.

Melbourne, the Cuénods and Lady Branden spent a cordial half-hour together before his ward came to the point which brought her. She wanted to close out the trust Melbourne had set up to protect her future and invest the principal according to her scheme to establish a bank with her husband that would bear both their names. Susan, now wed to this unsmiling bourgeois pastor’s son, Aimé Cuénod, still had something of Caro’s mannerisms about her, a tomboyish unconventionality, well concealed by the sober demeanor her husband seemingly required. They’d exchanged heated letters on the subject, Susan expressing herself with bold familiarity, Melbourne with rising disinterest. The proxy trustees Melbourne trusted to act on his behalf recommended against turning over such a substantial sum to a young pair not out of their twenties. Melbourne for his part was heartily sick of the entire matter, considered he had discharged his duty to his late wife in looking out for her young charge, and was happy enough to sign the papers Cuénod drew from his coat pocket and laid before him. _Besides, if they squander the whole I’ll have no choice but to provide further assistance and they well know it_ , Melbourne thought cynically while he scrawled his name in an angular hand familiar to any student of parliamentary bills passed during his tenure.

When he rose to depart Melbourne extended an invitation to Susan to repeat her visit of the previous year. She surprised him by expressing a wistful longing to see Brocket Hall once again. He felt slightly ashamed that he had not thought to let her know she was welcome there – it had been her childhood home, and he remembered with gratitude her kindness to Augustus and her devotion to Caro during the years of her decline.

“I would love to see Brocket Hall again!” She sighed. “But I don’t know if I could bear it without thinking of Caroline. We had such merry days there together. It must be terribly grim without her presence.”

Melbourne shook his head slightly, thinking of his beloved family home, and his more-than-beloved Victoria. It was her home – the place he had brought her to, where their love had first been consummated, where their own children now ran down the halls gleefully.

“Grim? Not at all. My wife has made it into a home once more. It is now Victoria’s house, no longer Caroline’s.” At this gentle reminder he saw the shutters come down over her animated expression.

“Where are you staying, Elizabeth? May I offer you a ride to your destination?” Melbourne asked courteously, already slightly weary from this encounter with the past, eager to spend some time writing to Victoria his daily letter and reading her own.

Elizabeth, Lady Branden, was unchanged, still easy and undemanding, the very opposite of tempestuous, the calm soothing presence she had always been. Melbourne approved of the respectably platonic affection she was careful to show him. If the embers of a far warmer connection still burned in that lady’s heart, he was grateful for her efforts to suppress it.

“The Hotel d'Angleterre, in the 6th Arrondissement,” she replied with an expectant smile. Melbourne arched his brows skeptically.

“Chance? It seems above your touch. Surely the pittance I send you doesn’t extend that far?” While he could not be entirely pleased that a former mistress should be housed under the same roof as he, so far from home,  her behavior – unlike another female of his acquaintance – was always impeccable toward him and, more importantly, Victoria. Lady Branden's letters, from the beginning, had been unobjectionable and always contained a proper extension of her greetings to the Queen.

“Call me a separate cab, William. It would cause needless speculation if anyone saw us together and remembered the old scandal. Don’t look at me that way. I’m no Caroline Norton, and want nothing but your happiness.”

Melbourne laughed. “You are a treasure, Elizabeth. Victoria knows I hoped to see you while I was here. Of course, when I write her I will describe this meeting. But yes, separate arrivals will allay gossip for those with nothing better to do.”

“Your wife is not even a little jealous of me?” Lady Branden asked, the dismay in her voice plain.

“Of course she is, my dear. But a very little, thanks only to your propriety and good sense.” Melbourne understood feminine vanity too well to say otherwise, but he could not prevent a small flicker of amusement from lighting his eyes. Yes, Victoria was jealous – she was suspicious of every female with whom he’d been intimate, and most of those with whom he had not. And while he had exerted himself over the years to earn her trust, it was not entirely displeasing to his vanity that his beautiful wife, more than four decades his junior, still saw him as completely desirable and assumed every other woman did likewise. He did not quite understand it, giving little thought to how he was perceived by others, but it was so very flattering and a tangible measure of Victoria’s love, assuaging his own latent insecurity.

Under Lady Branden’s wistful gaze, Melbourne’s handsome face softened, lending it an almost celestial glow in the gauzy Parisian light. She could not entirely suppress a sigh.

 


	2. Chapter 2

>  

When Lord Melbourne returned to his hotel he ascertained the whereabouts of his traveling companions  - both still out and about, although they would undoubtedly return soon to share an early supper before dressing for the Rochefoucauld’s ball  - and retired alone to his suite. Once there, he shed his close-fitting coat and loosened his cravat, then took up pen and paper. He scanned the lines he had written the previous night, before details were lost to his memory.

 _Your Majesty –_ old habits died hard, he reflected, smiling a little at the memory of their many letters over the years.

_Lord Melbourne presents his humble duty. I write this well after midnight and Paris is as lively as noon. We attended a performance at L'Opéra de Paris, the Opéra national de Paris. Reading the handbill, I can inform you it was a most satisfactory performance, based on the reaction of the audience. If you were there I believe you would have found it most engaging. I, on the other hand, was deprived of my main source of enjoyment, which is taking delight in your own pleasure. I can describe from memory the supper we had at intermission, the dinner we attended at a fine Paris residence, and even the gowns and jewels worn by the ladies. These last, I hasten to add, only because I envision you in every striking costume. I could tell you nothing of the person within, because frankly, my darling, I simply don’t pay attention._

Well enough, he decided; for the Queen knew he was no fan of opera and the details of the performance would have gone unnoticed. He forbore adding that he had enjoyed his customary nap, sitting in the royal box beside his host and the party they had assembled. Not even the powdered bosom which repeatedly pressed itself on his forearm had provided sufficient distraction. Melbourne began to write.

_Today I met with Susan and her husband to close out the trust. As she points out, her future is now. I have done my duty in that regard and seen her safely and – I must assume – satisfactorily wed. I invited her to visit us again but I doubt we shall see her anytime soon. My old friend Lady Branden is here, having accompanied Susan from Geneva. She sends her fond regards. We should invite her to visit privately at some future date. I likewise doubt we would see her – she has too much sense to expose you to gossip on my behalf – but she would be much affected by your invitation._

Melbourne searched his mind for those small descriptive phrases Victoria devoured, things which would allow her to see in her mind that which she might never view in person. He knew himself to be as oblivious to the particulars of his surroundings most men and struggled to create a word picture that could bring her here in spirit.

_If I could bring you to Paris, what a joy it would be. We would leave our hôtel at dawn and walk down the cobbled streets to a small coffee shop near the great flower market._

He’d coaxed her to take coffee in the morning, but her little nose would wrinkle adorably with distaste if it were not sweetened to the consistency of syrup.

_We would watch the city awaken together from where we sit. The air will be redolent with the aroma of every type of flower. The irises, I think, the finest amongst them, noble blooms with a fragrance as elegant and delectable. Before I return I will visit the parfumiers and ask them to blend a recipe of iris and jonquil just for you. La Reine, they shall call it._

_When the sun has burned off any lingering mist, we would walk together along the banks of the Seine. We will pause to watch the portraitists make their quick sketches, cleverly capturing the very essence of a sitter with only a few simple lines. I would have such a candid portrait of you done, capturing your spirit far more vividly than the stiff Court portraits._

Melbourne continued, describing the day they would have, if they were only a simple couple. When it came to the evening, he permitted himself to imagine what he would do when he took her to bed, and committed the words to paper as he pictured her reading them, seeing in his mind the pretty flush which would tint her cheeks, the quickening, shallow breaths, the way her delectable lips would part in anticipation of his kiss. _What a wonder, to know another as well – better – than one knows oneself._

Lord Melbourne scrawled one last line and pressed the paper to his lips before sealing it and placing it in the courier’s pouch. He deliberated a moment, then he drew a fresh sheet of paper to him and wrote another, far briefer message to Viscount Cameron. He locked both letters securely in the royal courier’s pouch and went to rest before the evening ahead.

Melbourne’s brother and brother-in-law let themselves in while he was still dressing. He spared a glance at his own reflection in the pier glass, satisfied with the effect he’d achieved after several failed attempts to tie his cravat. He’d opted for an effect combining the Mathematical and the Irish, and recalled Victoria’s gurgling laughter as she watched the details of his _toilette._   He acknowledged to himself that he was well and truly caught in the bondage of devotion, that even something so simple and oft-repeated as shaving and dressing was rendered an absolute delight by her presence.

 _“Well, ma’am,”_ he would ask, if she were there. “ _Do I pass inspection?”_ And she would look up at him, blue eyes shining with adoration – that look which was air and food and water to him, the sustenance which kept him alive.

 _“Oh, yes, Lord M,_ ” she would answer at once. _“You are the most handsome man I have ever seen_ ,” or even, “ _You are a beautiful man!_ ” and he would blushingly recognize the absolute sincerity in her voice. Foolish, undoubtedly, that he should be the object of this amazing young woman’s fierce, lasting first love, but a blessing he no longer questioned.

Lord Melbourne had traveled to Paris in the company of his brother Frederick and their gregarious _bon vivant_ brother-in-law Henry Temple. He would have declined the trip, except Victoria had insisted he go. He knew well how what she called her captivity chafed, and how much she yearned to go out into society, to travel and see the world. Her single trip to France, several years previously, had been an affair of state and she’d seen little beyond the Château d'Eu. She’d wistfully spoken of Paris when the trip was proposed, and insisted that he must go so she could enjoy it vicariously. Melbourne knew he needed the stimulation of social interaction, especially that verging on diplomacy, which this trip represented, but he greatly disliked knowing his wife could never travel with him. _How I would like to be the one to show her Paris!_

“I’ve ordered the carriage brought round for nine,” Palmerston said. “It’s now nine-forty-five.”

“And no gentleman of quality arrives a minute before eleven, so we are ahead of schedule,” Melbourne responded smoothly.

The real reason Palmerston had intrigued to come to Paris at just this time was Aberdeen’s close personal friendship with Soult’s foreign minister François Guizot. Palmerston estimated, rightly, in Melbourne’s opinion, that the Liberals would be back in power soon and he was determined to not be outmaneuvered.

Their Entente Cordiale, fully supported by their sovereigns, was the result of a personal friendship between the two countries’ foreign ministers. Aberdeen and Guizot had a great regard for one another which Palmerston feared would outlast the Peel government, leaving the Liberals at a disadvantage.

Relations between their two countries reflected the friendship between the two men. The prospect of British troops being committed to fight side by side with their French counterparts in Argentina, a country where the English had no compelling interest, was enough to convince Palmerston he could no longer sit on the sidelines. Melbourne thought highly of Monsieur Guizot, recognizing in him a fellow moderate besieged by both the left and the right for his centrist views.

Palmerston didn’t disagree on principle, considering that providing moderate military support in the Southern hemisphere now would gain Britain a valuable ally in the far east, where trade and especially the millions flowing with the opium that traveled from India to Singapore, would require strenuous military intervention in future. What Palmerston couldn’t like, in Melbourne’s cynical view, was the idea of another man in his place, negotiating the same agreements he himself would have done.

Lights sparkled in the trees like so many fireflies when their carriage deposited Frederick and William Lamb and Henry Temple before the Rochefoucauld’s elegant town-home in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Melbourne customarily gave little thought to how he was perceived by others, and little appreciated the notoriety his marriage to the Queen of England had brought. He did what he’d always done when under the spotlight of scandal or public acclaim. He assumed his customary air of nonchalance, strolling in with every indication of complete indifference, showing his sweet, if somewhat melancholy smile to those favored few to receive acknowledgement.

The Duc d’Nemours was present and Melbourne was immediately taken to him. His own status presented a conundrum. He retained his hereditary title of Viscount, which would rank him among the minor nobility, yet he was wed to the Queen of the most powerful nation on earth. Victoria had often expressed exasperation with his refusal to assume even the precedence held by her first husband. In his own mind, Melbourne’s determination was based less on humility than the awkwardness of having men he’d known his entire life suddenly bowing to a newly minted Royal Highness.

Melbourne knew the young Duc from their visit to Normandy the previous year, when Victoria made history in paying a State visit. Monsieur Guizot soon joined them and the three men conversed as they surveyed the ballroom.

“My father and I are pleased that Her Majesty lends support to our military alliance. Together we will make history, British troops and French fighting together, side by side as brothers.”

Melbourne’s long experience as a politician served him well in his new role, where a refusal to express any opinion on matters of policy was essential. That notion was still a novelty to him, that rather than viewing ‘the Crown’ as a necessary but essentially superfluous entity, it now described him and the role he must play.

“Her Majesty’s government has her full faith and support, Your Royal Highness,” he answered smoothly. “We believe peace is good for both our nations.”

“Ah but peace at what cost? You must know there are those who oppose our government’s policy of appeasement to the British,” the young Duc replied. Melbourne knew there was dissension in France, as there was in England, but privately wondered if it was more serious than they knew, if a young royal would concede as much to Englishmen.

Palmerston picked that moment to join them and Melbourne stepped back, allowing him to join. As his brother-in-law began a charm offensive, intending to begin seducing Guizot from his allegiance to Aberdeen, Melbourne permitted the sights and sounds of the crowded ballroom to lull him into reverie. He was interrupted several times by those wishing introductions, and more often to receive the greetings of old friends.

The lovely Georgiana Seymour, née Sheridan, Duchess of Somerset, was one of those who greeted him most effusively. She was in Paris  with her sister Helen. Only the third sister was absent, safely back in London in hot pursuit of Sydney Herbert, Peel’s Secretary of War, for which Melbourne was heartily grateful. When the Duchess demanded he partner her in a waltz Melbourne attempted to demur, offering her Frederick in his stead. But Georgie would have none of it, and he knew he could not persist without appearing either churlish or absurd, and so he gallantly bowed and squired her onto the floor. The barely perceptible limp in left leg had not unduly troubled him in some time, but then he customarily danced only with Victoria.

“You are quite the cipher to the Parisiennes, William,” Georgie cooed in arch flirtatious tone. “A man of mystery.”

“’Mystery’, ma’am? I very much doubt that. I would have rather thought I was notorious. You reassure me I can remain incognito?”

‘Why? What naughtiness would you be up to if you could be certain of anonymity? Tell me, William, I will keep your secret. What would you do tonight, for example, if no one recognized you to carry tales back to London?”

“Why, if no one here recognized me…” he paused for effect, and she held her breath, looking up at him invitingly as he guided her about the ballroom. “I would find a private spot, a quiet out-of-the-way room…”

“Yes, William? What would you do there? And with whom?” The tip of her tongue peeked out from between artfully painted lips.

“Why, I would take a nap, Madame,” he finished, eyes dancing with merriment.

“My sister foolishly hopes to dissuade Herbert from marrying, when she knows he must. If only George would for once do the selfless thing and die, so she could be released from bondage.” Melbourne made no response, unwilling to venture into that particular territory. Seeing he would not rise to her rather half-hearted bait, she cast about for an easier topic of conversation. The Duchess liked and admired Lord Melbourne and was not eager to espouse her sister’s lost cause needlessly. Her sister was a fool blinded by infatuation and her own ego to persist in desiring the one man, Lord Melbourne, she would never have.

As Lord Melbourne led her around the floor he found Georgiana to be as amusing a conversationalist as any in her remarkable family, and he laughed easily as they exchanged quips at the expense of their fellow dancers. The woman knew everyone, Melbourne thought, as she rattled off some juicy tidbit about nearly everyone they passed.

The Duchess had been an accredited beauty and was breaktakingly lovely still, all peaches and cream with an exquisite porcelain complexion. With his hand laid on her back and being of a sufficient height to enjoy an unencumbered view of her fine breasts, Lord Melbourne idly toyed with the notion that he could probably bed her if he chose. She was making her interest clear, using all the old familiar ploys. Such frank flirtation was no rare thing, but Melbourne humbly attributed it to nothing more than a predatory urge, the cachet of seducing a Queen’s husband. Yet here, in Paris, the invitation came from one who had known him for years, who he knew would be a discreet partner and had no desire to stir the jealousy of her own husband. He was almost dismayed by his own lack of interest. _Am I getting old?_ He wondered, aghast, searching as one might prod at a sore tooth, for some sign of response.

No, it was there if he encouraged it, enough of a response to reassure him he was no eunuch, but not nearly enough to tempt him to action. It all seemed like so much effort for so little reward, Melbourne thought. He’d had women in abundance over the course of his life, each unique and satisfying in their own way, and certainly he’d never been uninterested in new…experiences. But nothing had prepared him for _her._ In some indefinable way they were one, so her sensations magnified his own and his pleasure fed off hers until it all compounded exponentially, some mysterious alchemy of love. Anything less now seemed like…work.

In days past he would have been the first to laugh out loud at any man worthy of the name who was disinterested in variety, little inclined to take advantage of any amorous opportunity which presented itself. Yet with Victoria it all seemed so perfectly, exquisitely _right_ that he was not inclined to settle for less.

When the music ended, Melbourne bowed gracefully to his partner and led her off the floor. She flirted with her eyes and her fan, but it seemed rote, without zest.

“What a waste!” She murmured before turning away. “Such a devastatingly handsome man, held completely captive by our little royal girl.”

**

When they returned to the hôtel it was after three and Melbourne knew the June sun would rise before long. Still, his heart beat faster when he saw the new diplomatic pouch, bearing the royal emblem, waiting on his bureau. He tugged off his carefully arranged necktie and permitted his groggy valet to assist him in undressing. Then he threw himself on the bed and tore open her letter.

_My darling dearest William,_

_How I long for you! The days are unbearably long without you, made worse by the knowledge that you are in Paris, the city I so long to see, surrounded by sights and sounds I’ll never experience. Before you think I reproach you, I do not. Rather, I am grateful that you can see and do those things I never will. You, my love, must do it all for both of us._

_We dined with the Duke of Devonshire and his niece, Lord and Lady Ashley, Princess Beatrice and her companion. Dear Harriet Lister is on duty all weekend so she was naturally here, and kept me from being quite bored to tears by the rest, some worthies whom Sir Robert recommended to me. Nothing much happened, nothing amusing was said, no faux pas committed and no scandal erupted._

_This weekend I go to Brocket Hall with the children. Mama and my some of my ladies will accompany me. Emily invited us and I was ever so pleased. She is very kind to me always but I am never certain she really likes me, or if she considers me silly and stupid and very flat company._

_My darling, most charming, most desirable of men, I know – I hope I can say that without sounding unbearably overconfident – that you would not intentionally become interested in another lady but we of all people know how such attractions can develop without intent. I can’t not be frightened, every hour of every day, that you will grow tired of me and meet some other lady, more beautiful, wittier, more accomplished and able to go out into the world with you, while I must remain confined like some strange bird in this gilded cage. _

_I send you my heart, so I can be with you in spirit, a little ghost beside you wherever you go._

_I need you so much more than you need me, and that is the cost of loving a man such as you, such a splendid wonderful man. It hurts but it’s one I willingly pay._

_I adore you, I love you, I want you, I long for you. I count the days until you return._

_Victoria_

__“Un petit fantôme”_  _

Lord Melbourne lay on his back with her letter held against his chest, smiling. Warmed, touched, amused by that girlish enthusiasm with which she invigorated him just by being herself. The nearness her words suggested stirred him powerfully and he briefly contemplated finding relief. The spectacle of a man of his years assuaging his own need at three in the morning while clutching his wife’s love letter made him laugh out loud, effectively diminishing the issue. Instead, still smiling, he rolled over and allowed himself to drift off into sleep. His last waking thought was a fervent wish - prayer, had he been a praying man - that his sleep would be undisturbed by dreams.

_Georgiana Seymour, née Sheridan, Duchess of Somerset_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder from earlier works: The part of Cameron is played by British actor Ben Robson, currently starring in TNT’s Animal Kingdom series.


	3. Chapter 3

Emily Temple, Viscountess Palmerston, had her usual effect on the servants of her childhood home. Panshanger House was officially in the possession of her eldest son George, the 6th Earl Cowper, and although she was always welcome there, it was as a visitor and mother-in-law. Broadlands, her husband’s country estate, was too far distant for easy travel from London and as any great estate, ran itself with little oversight. But Brocket Hall, that was a different story. That needed a mistress’s hand.

William had poured money into the place over the past few years, but like any male, had precious little interest in seeing how it was spent. Fred and his wife made Melbourne Hall their home – entailed, it would be his with the title someday and their elder brother was content enough to leave it in his heir’s hands now. Moreover, Fred’s young wife was a surprisingly assertive young woman, an efficient and conscientious maîtresse.

One could only do so much in a townhome, and as elegant a destination as Cambridge House was, perfectly situated for the political entertaining at which Lady Palmerston excelled, it presented neither the challenge nor the reward of keeping Brocket Hall in order.

By rights, of course, her eldest brother’s wife was the lady of the manor. But this titular Viscountess Melbourne had as little notion of what maintaining a country house required as the first. Although, to be fair, with far better reason.

She swept into the Hall early in the morning on the day Her Majesty was expected to arrive, and cast about a critical eye. It took her only a few moments’ examining the gleaming floor stretching down the main corridor to the grand dining room – Coke’s Folly, it had once been called, when their grandfather built it in expectation of his heirs someday entertaining royalty – to begin pointing out details which required attention. The housekeeper, a stout woman of middle years, had come to the Hall as a third under-housemaid when the mistress was a girl in her first season. She had married backstairs and now she and her husband provided impeccable service in a home she loved as her own. Nonetheless, that formidable lady was hard put to keep a civil tongue in her head.

“Yes, yes, the floors are admirably well-polished. But see, along the baseboards? And in the corners? That accumulation of grime must be removed before Her Majesty’s arrival.”

Mrs. Porter sniffed. Miss Emily’s sweet tone didn’t take the sting from her words. _And to use ‘Her Majesty’ as the excuse! Why, when that sweet child was grateful for everything a body did and never said boo! except to say her thank you’s._

 _Well, but she was right of course,_ Mrs. Porter would say to her husband later _. It’s that new footman, spends more time looking around him and peeking between the covers of books than he does at his job. You see to him, Porter. I was so ashamed I didn’t know where to look. For she was right, all along the baseboards you could see where the dirt had been pushed up against the molding._

Lady Palmerston was better pleased when she visited the kitchens. It was June and early pickings were to be had – new asparagus fresh-picked from the kitchen garden, other exotic offerings from William’s succession-houses which could grace the table.

Beds were dressed in fresh linen. No more the tattered, mended supply of years past; William’s infusion of funds had stocked the linen closets to overflowing with the finest French damask sheets and Russia-toweling.

When she stepped into the Queen’s bedroom she scrutinized every inch of it, stroking her hand down the silky duvet cover, evaluating whether any of the fixtures required repair or replacement. _Was it time for redecoration?_ She wondered aloud. Her Majesty had never expressed a preference, only quietly thanked her when presented with the new renovations now some five years old. The water closet with its clever copper piping utilized the same design her late Consort had introduced at Windsor and Buckingham House, so that the Queen’s daily baths could be accomplished without the servants’ lugging pails of water up the back passage. That thought made Emily’s mouth curve into a smile, half-mocking, half-amused. The silly little thing had given herself so entirely over to William’s way of doing things that she’d even adopted his habit of bathing daily, an affectation he in turn had taken up when Brummel made it _de rigueur_ for those gentlemen who aspired to his standards. _Wouldn’t one love to have been a fly on the wall during_ that _instruction?_ Emily smirked.

Emily had watched with the same degree of incredulity as anyone else, when her brother had immediately been taken into the new Queen’s confidence. A slip of a girl only eighteen, raised in seclusion by a grim governess and flighty mother, it was little wonder she would be dazzled by the charming Lord Melbourne. Most wags had bet on how long the girl’s infatuation would take to run its course, some betting on Melbourne himself to lose interest swiftly in playing nursemaid to a naïve girl. Not even the most reckless gambler laid wager on their relationship surviving the Queen’s marriage, for what girl of nineteen could sustain many-hours-daily interaction with her aging Prime Minister when she had a young prince in her bed? Especially – for even the Queen’s diaries were not inviolable – for one who _looked so exceedingly handsome in his tight white cashmere breeches_?

What went on in that marriage bed was anyone’s guess – Emily and her husband made a few, based on supposition and worldly experience – but Melbourne’s influence only grew stronger after the Queen’s marriage. He took on the Coburg prince as another protégé, mentoring them both in the ways of government and society.

Emily loved her brother unconditionally, and liked his company better than most, never underestimating the appeal of his gentle, whimsical manner, the aphorisms he uttered apropos of nothing, and of course his startling good looks, only improving with age. But she viewed with no small degree of alarm what she saw as his infatuation with a young girl. That the young girl in question should be dazzled by _him_ , Emily saw as inevitable, for her brother was the most charming of men. But that he, a worldly-wise man four decades her senior, already tarnished by more than one sensational scandal, should lose his heart to a guileless girl, shook Emily to her core. She feared for him, plain and simple. Feared for his reputation, should this scandal erupt, and feared for his heart, already broken and mended, when the affair inevitably reached its conclusion.

Instead the girl had married him, far sooner than was seemly after the prince’s tragic death and, if Emily was not sorely mistaken, had presented him with two children he could never publicly claim long before that.

The Prince of Wales was the twin of William as he was at that age, painted by Reynolds in a portrait he called _Affectionate Brothers_. A portrait which had not been on display in the public rooms since shortly after their resemblance became unmistakable.

Walking downstairs rather more slowly than she’d made her ascent, Emily considered momentarily the awkwardness between her sister-in-law and herself. Little Vicky had sensed from the beginning Emily’s reservations – was _concern_ the right word? _trepidation_? – and interpreted it as disapproval. When William shared as much with her once, Emily had laughed the notion to scorn.

“Does she know _our_ story, William? That Henry and I had to wait _thirty years_ for Cowper to die so we could wed? That if only he could claim them, three of my children are his? How could she think I would disapprove of her? _Tell_ her, William, that only my love for you and my desire to protect you made me less than thrilled at the prospect of what could go wrong?” He assured her he had, and ever since reassured her that the Queen held no animosity toward her, but Emily did not mistake the matter. Little Vicky held her grudges a good long while, and could freeze anyone without lifting a brow, merely by being _polite_.

Whatever Emily’s private concerns, she was unfailingly warm and welcoming when she hosted Her Majesty at Brocket Hall. She had, after their marriage, paid lip service to Victoria’s rightful status as the new mistress of the manor, but the girl had neither inclination nor experience in directing servants and running a great house and Emily was pleased enough to continue as the _de facto_ mistress of Brocket Hall.

**

Emily had met their discreetly unmarked carriage in the portico and stepped forward to curtsy deeply in greeting to the Queen. Then she made her curtsy to His Royal Highness Prince William, standing quietly beside his mother, those watchful green eyes so like William’s meeting her own.

“Welcome to Brocket Hall, Your Royal Highness,” she said formally. William would chide her, if he were here. It was his oft-expressed wish that the boy feel as though he had a real, extended family and a home at Brocket Hall. _But William can’t know what it’s like when she looks at one with that cool, remote expression, so certain of her own authority, her own divinity almost._

“Thank you, Lady Palmerston. I am pleased to be here.”

Liam was a quiet, self-possessed boy, unfailingly courteous and accustomed to receiving obeisance. Emily had seen her nephew with her own grandchildren, and in his father’s reassuring presence he would join in their play, albeit thoughtfully and without ever quite losing his dignity. The little princess was far more uninhibited, a bold, outspoken tot, the very image of her mother but with her father’s winsome charm. She was three, tiny for her age but perfectly formed. William doted on her, as foolishly besotted as most men were with daughters while they claimed to prefer sons. When her father was near the princess had eyes for no one but him, ordering her father about, _queening_ it over him, as he boasted.

Emily looked to the Queen once more, willing her to take the initiative in breaking through the wall of chilly reserve between them.

“Liam, Papa says you may call Lady Palmerston by her name,” Victoria said in a quiet voice. “She is your family.” _That, then_ , Emily thought. It was something. Not _our family_ but _your family_. And she reminds him William wishes her to be _Aunt_.

“Aunt Em!” Princess Elizabeth – _Lilly,_ William calls her – said firmly and reached out a small dimpled hand, putting it in Emily’s.

A second carriage drew up, this one carrying the servants. The outriders, members of the Household Cavalry who had escorted the royal family, were familiar enough with the Hall to know where their barracks were, built onto the back of the new stables.

Emily counted servants, only to be sure she had made adequate arrangements. _Dresser, nursery maids, footman to run what errands Her Majesty might have, as though Brocket Hall were not adequately staffed. A second lady’s maid?_ Emily’s glance stopped at a neatly dressed woman she could not quite peg. The woman’s eyes moved back and forth, surveying her surroundings as though committing them to memory. She lifted her eyes to look at the upper windows, then back down to meet Emily’s own curious gaze. Only then did she lower her eyes once more, in an attitude more suited to a servant. Emily pegged her for what she was, this young woman, so she only glanced at the oversized reticule she carried to confirm it.

 _One of those, then – the South Street brigade, William calls them for lack of a better name._ Emily was satisfied she had guessed correctly, but conceded it was only possible because her brother had confided in her. Otherwise, no one would suspect.

“Well, then,” she said belatedly. “Shall we go inside?” Impulsively, Emily offered her arm as she would to a sister or bosom friend, and was pleasantly surprised when, after only a momentary pause, the Queen took it.

Victoria gratefully accepted Emily’s offer to retire to her chambers to repair the ravages of travel, and Lady Palmerston was pleased to see Her Majesty reappear looking far less regal. She’d loosened her hair from the confinement it had been bound in, and her long dark hair only loosely braided, Victoria looked closer to seventeen than twenty-six years. She’d changed her travel costume for a soft pale blue gown, and Emily admired the rejuvenating effect of this simple costume change. Emily marveled once more that not one but two of her brothers had made love matches with girls four decades younger. Fred’s wife Alexandrina shared not only a name but a birth year with Victoria, to compound the symmetry.

They had only just seated themselves in the drawing room when the butler stepped in, begging their pardons, offering the menu for approval. This venerable gentleman appeared momentarily unsure which of the ladies he should approach.

Emily broke the impasse by stretching out her hand for the printed menu and looking to Victoria. “Ma’am, would you please tell me anything you’d like to have changed? I wasn’t sure what would suit you, except that it’s a fine time of year for some of the local produce.”

Victoria raised her blue eyes in appeal. “I’m sure whatever you’ve planned will be fine.”

“Please –“ Emily pressed the menu on her. “This is _your_ home, ma’am. I’m only here to ensure everything was prepared for your visit.”

Victoria took the handwritten sheet and scanned it quickly. “I’m sure this is quite adequate. You see, I’ve never – things like this have always been handled for me, and I wouldn’t know what to change. You must think me quite silly and spoiled.” She bit her lip, smiling sheepishly, and Emily had a glimpse of the face she must show William in private. _No wonder_ …

“Not at all, ma’am. It’s all in what one is accustomed to. I would have no idea how to evaluate a recommendation on…oh, say, a treaty, or a proposal to increase the tariff on cotton imports.” Emily cast about at random, for something reassuring to say. To her surprise, Victoria grinned.

“Now you _are_ teasing me, Lady Palmerston. I know from your husband and mine that your political savvy is every bit as acute as mine, or more so, and your own recommendations more closely attended to.”

Emily dismissed the hovering butler and moved to sit beside her young sister-in-law. “Now…just strike out what you don’t particularly like and write in what you do. If the chef cannot comply, well, we won’t starve. Come now...”

Victoria laughed out loud. “Very well. Then I think, if it’s only the two of us and the children, this is an excessively _large_ amount of food. If you agree, what if we have only two courses? When I was here the past summer we had fresh fish for dinner. Asparagus blooms in June, I believe?”

Emily laughingly corrected her. “I’m sure William would correct us on the word ‘bloom’.  I am certain we could find some kitchen boys more than willing to spend the day fishing. And if they are unlucky then Chef can improvise. How about only _Un Potage Duchesse, Une timbale de macaroni à la Parisienne_ and the _Glaces à l’orange_?”

She formed the happy thought of summoning the elderly senior stableman, a favorite of her little nephew, to perform the task of extracting dinner from the River Lea, and offering Liam the opportunity to assist.

“Not to worry, ma’am, we will walk along and keep an eye on them although old Walmsley would never let harm come to the Prince. He guards the well-being of that pony William gave him as though it were an Ascot winner.”

Victoria, Lady Palmerston and the little Princess walked along behind the fishermen, finding a shade tree to sit beneath. One of the two nursery maids followed behind, prepared to tend her young charge, and unsurprisingly, the presumed lady’s maid walked at her side. There, then, Emily thought, we are safe as can be, with her watching over us.

The next hours were spent in perfect amity, Victoria unbending even further, laughing as Emily shared some of the misadventures of her brothers in their boyhood spent right here. Victoria seemed particularly spellbound by the image she conjured up, of William Lamb as a muddy boy turning out his pockets to reveal the frogs he’d attempted to smuggle into their mother’s parlor, just as she was entertaining the Prince Regent and his crowd.

“Does Liam truly resemble William at that age? I have heard but – I confess, I can’t picture William as a child.”

“The image of him, ma’am, the very image. No one who knew us as children could ever doubt –“ Emily stopped herself just in time, wary of committing a faux pas. There was still so much unsaid. “fortunately, or not, there are few left who knew us as children, at least when they were adults. Other children do not notice such things.”

“And does Liam remind you of his father otherwise? He is so serious and William so light-hearted.” The Queen sounded wistful, Emily thought, as concerned as any normal mother might be in discussing her child. _Why did I think that word? She_ is _a normal mother, and my nephew blessedly a normal child._ This _nephew._ Emily remembered William’s other son, that great lumbering boy-man who frightened the maids.

“He is serious, ma’am. Perhaps that’s inevitable, considering his station. How could he be otherwise? The Prince has William’s kind heart, and his keen intellect. He will do you great credit. And he is happy and well-loved. You are most fortunate, ma’am.” Emily grew silent, remembering her own unspoken fears when she had an inkling of the child’s true parentage. _How much worse it must have been for William,_ she thought, _and for her, of course, knowing about Augustus._

“You are thinking of William’s older son?” Victoria asked gently. Emily realized the Queen meant to console _her_.

“I was,” she confessed. “Your son is my brother’s child.” _There, I’ve said it. Will she deny it?_ When Victoria only listened attentively, Emily continued. “We always assumed Augustus’s problems were connected to Caro’s high-strung personality, her severe mood swings and instability. But of course, no one can know such things for sure, and it might have been some flaw in William’s line that – that could reappear in another child. I guess then we would be sure.” Emily knew her tone was perhaps too harsh. “If ever I had – hesitation – about William’s – about you and him – “ _You’ve gone this far, go ahead and say it. Clear the air._ “It was because my brother had already endured so much, and the prospect of everything that could go wrong –“ She stopped talking, aware that she might have just opened a gulf between them which would dwarf any that came before.

Victoria tentatively reached for her hand. “And now, ma’am?”

“Now I think you make him happy and that’s everything. To him, and if my feelings on the subject matter, to me.”

Victoria might have offered to embrace her as a sister, but such physical expression did not come easily to her, either given or received. Instead she merely smiled warmly and turned the conversation to lighter matters. They watched Liam jump about delightedly as a fish was brought in, as the little princess engaged in futile attempts to catch a rabbit which had hopped across her path.

**

The two of them had dined together and together kissed the children goodnight, then repaired to the library, where they sat in companionable silence while Victoria read the correspondence a courier had brought, in an official dispatch portfolio marked with the royal insignia.

One letter caught Emily’s attention, the angular hand, so difficult to decipher, as familiar to her as her own. _William writes her daily_ , Emily thought, wanting to consider it as excessive, wishing instead her own husband was so attentive. Victoria turned the small key she wore in the lock of the portfolio, and kept his letter in her hand.

“How long do you stay, ma’am? Until William returns?” Emily asked idly, to break the silence. Victoria caught her breath, her eyes glittering strangely with suppressed excitement.

“Until Friday,” Victoria responded. “But – I hope to leave the children here until William returns.”

Emily looked up, curious. “You will leave before the children? Of course, they are welcome, this is there home but – does business call you back to London? Will you go back unescorted, or leave the children here and ride with the Guard?”

“The officers will stay here until we return. I will leave with Viscount Cameron.”


	4. Chapter 4

A newspaper had recently commented that train excursions were quickly becoming the main source of amusement for the British middle-class, and that fact was well-evidenced by the number and variety of fellow passengers.

Victoria had traveled by rail before, but only on the Royal train at its stately measured pace, and only in the company of her own Court, those same familiar faces she saw about her every day. Traveling by public rail as one of a small party in a compartment separated only by a single door from the crowded seats beyond was far beyond anything she had previously experienced. Victoria felt light-headed with some mixture of anxiety and exhilaration, freedom and vulnerability, and she was determined to pay close attention to all the sights and sounds of this most remarkable adventure.

They had left the Hall at dawn, long before the children were awake, with only Lady Palmerston awake to see them off. Cameron and his friends must have stayed at an inn nearby, one of the busier hostelries in Hatfield proper. Since the Great Northern Railroad had come through, Hatfield, like so many other communities, had seen a remarkable increase in travelers.

Victoria thought she and Lady Palmerston had reached a tolerable understanding which made Victoria cringe inwardly as she returned a warm, even sisterly embrace, suddenly sure that the older woman had guessed what she was about to do.

For her part, Emily considered it almost reassuring, how little practice William’s wife had at deceit. The girl no sooner had a thought than she expressed it and guile didn’t come easily. All week, since that letter of William’s, Victoria had jumped each time she heard a noise outside and was as skittish as a virgin on the verge of elopement, almost buzzing with scarcely suppressed excitement.

**

Their departure had been meticulously planned and left little to chance. They had only a few short miles to travel by coach, before meeting the southbound train. A private compartment had been hired for Victoria and her female companions. One of the three gentlemen rode with them, and he assured them the other two were seated on either side of the aisle just outside the door.

“Billy has it all under control, ma’am, not to worry,” this man pronounced, as though it was the only reassurance anyone might need.

One of the women had brought a hamper of provisions, but Victoria was too energized to eat. She watched out the window as countryside went by in a blur, exclaiming at the sensation of speed. For the first part of her journey Victoria felt almost giddy, exhilarated at the success of this first part of her adventure.

The train stopped a good long while to board what seemed to Victoria like an unfathomable number of passengers, and knowing just how closely this mass of humanity pressed on her, for the first time she realized just how vulnerable and exposed she truly was. She had spent her life behind thick walls and medieval fortifications. No matter how much she chafed at confinement and the smothering attentions of her mother and Lehzen, the constant presence of her attendants, they suddenly represented security. _Have I made a dreadful mistake?_   For a moment Victoria thought she might be panic but swallowed it down and stiffened her spine, gratefully resuming the impenetrable façade of her own dignified reserve.

Miss Skerrett, her longtime personal maid, sat quietly beside her. Hands folded in her lap, neither gabbing with the others nor much interested in her surroundings, she represented all things familiar and Victoria was desperately glad of her. _If only he was with me_ , she thought fervently.

They were to change trains at Charing Cross, just outside of London, and it was here that Lord Cameron had devoted much attention to evading detection. The women and men were paired, none of them permitting the Queen out of their line of vision. Victoria’s escort was a stocky fellow with thick bushy sideburns. She accepted with equanimity his gruff apology and the arm he extended for her to grasp. During their speedy transit the length of the station, throughout the hansom cab ride which took them to the embarkation point for the final leg of their journey on English soil, Victoria grew greatly interested in the quiet, efficient professionalism with which her motley collection of escorts conducted themselves. The females especially impressed her. She had never entertained the notion of women employed at anything other than the genteel roles deemed suitable for respectable females. These women, Lord Cameron’s friends – “Friends”, as the captains of her Household Guard and even the old Duke referred to them – were perhaps not respectable in the narrow definition with which her mother would agree, but they were lively, resourceful and had an air of strength and certainty Victoria greatly admired.

In less than no time Victoria and her party were in a new train car, this one part of the recently amalgamated Midland Railway, and were headed toward the coast. As soon as they were underway, tension and the rush of adrenaline which had fueled her early exhilaration left Victoria feeling drained and she slumped limply against Miss Skerrett’s shoulder. She would like to know what the rest of Lord Cameron’s plan was, but had scarcely laid eyes on him and she thought that if she summoned him now it would imply a lack of trust or flagging confidence. Neither was the case. Victoria had every reason to trust his devotion to her personally, and he certainly had the confidence of those whose judgement she respected. These friends of his obeyed him without hesitation and his foreign exploits were the stuff of legend. Not quite liking the feeling of being so completely in someone else’s hands, Victoria shrugged it off and closed her eyes, determined to sleep now if she could so the time would pass more quickly.

The ladies disembarked at several points for comfort breaks, Victoria never unattended, although her companions showed no deference. Instead they tugged at her arm, chattering like magpies while they made their way through the crowds. One or the other would stop to buy some novelty for sale, ices and meat pies, piling their purchases into a string bag Victoria was made to carry. She thought she understood, why their hands remained unencumbered while the Queen was made to carry their bundles, but it annoyed her nonetheless. _This is what you wanted_ , she reminded herself. To be out and about like an ordinary woman. When Miss Skerrett tried taking her bag she was discouraged from doing so. Victoria wondered whether their treatment was entirely dictated by Lord Cameron’s instructions for the roles they must play. _They seem to enjoy it a bit too much_ , she thought.

The largest of these rail stations was like a small village or vast marketplace and Victoria looked about, swinging her head left to right, trying to take it all in. Women and girls were out in force, none of them gentlefolk, but respectable, she thought, perhaps merchants’ wives and daughters, or young women returning from their schools in the company of a maid or governess. 

The final leg of their land travel was made in what seemed to be record time. A hired hack was waiting in the port city to take them down to the pier, where they boarded a waiting yacht. Victoria recognized the insignia of the Duke of Devonshire at the same time she recognized the stocky, rough-looking character who welcomed them aboard. He bowed over her hand as he’d undoubtedly seen his master do, and Victoria forced herself to remain impassive when his lips touched the back of her hand. He wore a purser’s jacket which hung open, not quite covering the expanse of his midsection, and he could have done with a shave. His gaze was sharp, and as it always was, just a trifle more bold than Victoria thought proper. Clearly Lord Cameron thought likewise, because he snapped a brief order, no more than a word or two, and the man shot him a baleful look before sauntering away with a great show of careless disregard.

“How much longer, do you think?” Victoria asked.

“Before we reach our destination?” He shrugged. “I estimate we’ll arrive between two and four in the morning. Of course, things can go wrong – a missed connection, delay at landing – but that’s my best guess.”

“I think things don’t go wrong for you often, Lord Cameron,” Victoria observed thoughtfully.

“You’d be surprised, ma’am. The trick is to keep moving and always have a backup plan. And never let’em see you sweat.” He looked down at her – the top of Victoria’s head barely reached his shoulder, and she thought once more what a graceful man he was, for one so large. The sea breeze whipped his long hair around his face and he pushed it back. “You’d better go inside, ma’am. They’ve prepared a spot for you to rest so you’re fresh when we land.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind and you’ve thought of everything.” Victoria smiled up at him.

“Just doing my job, ma’am,” he gave a mock salute with two fingers. “And if I can help give you something you want, all the better. Your Majesty.”

**

In Paris, Lord Melbourne had an obligation to dine with a group of expatriates who were eager for news from home, as eager as he was to hear their casual retelling of the anecdotes most popular in the capital that spring and summer. He found great value in these informal visits, when people discussed what they’d heard in this or that drawing room, who was more or less popular, who was selling out of the ‘Change and where the price of real estate in the suburbs was headed. Melbourne was an excellent listener and few noticed he listened far more than he talked. When he did, his own utterances were mere commonplaces, but so spiced with wit and aphorisms that his reputation as a raconteur was upheld.

“His building projects abound, but they do little to placate the working classes. Wages remain low and the price of bread high.”

“There hasn’t been a full-scale riot in nearly five years. That only means tensions are rising without means of siphoning off discontent.”

“Nemours was in London a few months ago. Surely you saw then the man lacks what it takes to inspire the masses. He dislikes public appearances and if they don’t put on a show how do they expect to sustain the illusion?”

Melbourne sifted what he heard for the fine grains of fact relevant to the picture he was attempting to compose. If monarchy was an anachronism; this monarchy was, in his view, a papier-mâché construct which fooled no one. He had no vested interest, except to protect Victoria and his own country, in order of importance, but to do that he wanted to understand first, and then prognosticate. Just as over his years in office Tom Young had been a weather vane of sorts, enabling him to gauge what the mood was down below, where unrest would be liable to brew, Melbourne now sought to establish and maintain connections at home and abroad which would allow him to do the same for his wife.

Melbourne believed in his bones that the English were no revolutionary people, yet all around him was clear evidence of others who had erroneously believed the same thing. Times were changing so rapidly he sometimes felt as though he bridged two eras, with a foot in each. A delicate feat of legerdemain, since he knew Victoria’s station was indelibly bred into her and she must not, could not, be expected to see possibilities beyond those which defined her very existence. She might have been bred and born in the most literal sense to provide an heir to the throne and ensure the continuity of a thousand-year monarchy, but her crown was not all or even most of what made Victoria the delightful, strong willed and infinitely adaptable young woman she was. Melbourne devoutly hoped she might never be put to the test, but if a test there was, it was his duty to ensure she passed.

Lord Melbourne could not have been more charming, his hostesses concurred, and if he was distracted during the long leisurely post-prandial political chatter it was not apparent. But he himself was never more grateful he did not carry a timepiece, for if he had it would have been in his hands all evening.

He had the timetable committed to memory and knew there was ample time to finish his evening, make a leisurely journey back to his hotel and from there, to the second venue in which he had reserved accommodations for a single night. This last was delicately done, through the intercession of his valet’s assistant, since the husband of the Queen of England might not be a celebrity in his own mind, only one overly observant concierge could derail the entire plan. And an assignation involving a young woman smuggled into his room in the dead of night would give rise to the sort of scandal he devoutly wished to spare his wife. 

The evening concluded, Lord Melbourne returned to his own hotel, strolling nonchalantly through the lobby. Shortly afterward he slipped out a side entrance and into a waiting hansom cab. He was en route to the Hôtel Saint-Germain-des-Pré, across the city. He hesitated, then asked to be taken to the Embarcadère Saint-Germain instead.

Once in the near-empty railyard, Melbourne stood under the star-filled summer sky, wishing finally that he had a pocket watch in his possession. With only his growing impatience by which to gauge the time, Melbourne reckoned the hour to be near one with no sign of life save the tomcats yawling their mating calls to the moon. He smirked to himself, the metaphor obvious. His ever-present shadow, the young apprentice valet whose efforts so frustrated his own superior body servant, had not been pleased at the detour but kept his concerns to himself. He stood at a distance, holding his cigarillo in a cupped hand to hide the ember.

“Here they be, your lordship, damme if they’re not right on time. Never know the Cap to be late to a rendezvous and looks like he won’t be startin’ anytime soon.” Melbourne heard nothing else save the cacophony of crickets and cats, and then he did.

As soon as the party emerged from their transport, he recognized them at a distance, she the smallest of the group and the man beside her the largest. He knew his own vehicle would be harder to spot, parked as it was around the side of the terminal. Another, larger coach was drawn up nearby, that one hired to bring his passengers to their prearranged destination.

“Cap isn’t gonna like seein’ us. He don’t take well to anyone changin’ his plans. I’ll let you tell’im why we’re here, sir,” his minder growled, seemingly girding himself for an inevitable upbraiding or worse.

By then it was obvious to the new arrivals that they were not alone. Melbourne leaned casually against a corner of the building with a small half-smile curling his lips. Victoria lifted her head and saw him at once. She lifted her skirts and ran across the uneven ground, hurling herself into his arms.

Over the top of her head, Melbourne saw Cameron roll his eyes, before cutting them quickly to send a chilling look toward the man who had failed to dissuade him from making this impromptu appearance.

“Supposed to meet you at the Hôtel in –“ he glanced at his own watch. “twenty-five minutes. You couldn’t wait, sir?” Melbourne did not take umbrage, appreciative of Cameron’s professionalism and seeing the grin lurking beneath his stern expression.

“No, I’m afraid not. All go well?” Melbourne asked, neatly moving Victoria to his side and untangling the arms clutching his waistcoat.

“Very well. No complications. You have – eighteen hours, sir, ma’am. Then we must be back on the road. Did you arrange the rooms for all of us?” Cameron addressed the last to Melbourne’s shadow. That gentleman nodded eagerly, stubbing out the butt of his cigarillo against the sole of his boot.

“Yes, Billy. It’s all done. You’ll all be paired off, sort it out how you will. I’ll be back at the first place holding the fort, fending off any visitors who might call on His Lordship until tomorrow night. Dyspepsia, sir. Frenchified food just don’t agree with you. All them sauces and such.”

Melbourne made a face. “We couldn’t come up with a better excuse than that?” He laughed.

“Thank you, Lord Cameron. Your…your squad has done an admirable job, as usual. We really have to come up with a name, you know.”

Cameron shrugged carelessly, throwing back his hair and plucking a fresh cigarillo from his man’s coat pocket. He scratched the head of match against his thumbnail and lit it, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.

“Call us whatever you will. The Duke calls us South Streeters, you call us – what?”

“Lord Cameron’s Friends,” Victoria supplied, her voice muffled from proximity to her husband’s arm, against which her cheek was pressed.

“The French used _Secret du Roi_.” Cameron shrugged once more, a lazy rolling of his broad muscled shoulders which seemed to be an habitual gesture, Lord Melbourne observed.

“Walsingham needed no special name for his brotherhood,” he finally said, lazily shifting to repel the buffeting of one of the women standing behind him.

“’Brotherhood’?” She hooted, her Cockney roots now evident, the air of refinement shed with her bonnet and cloak. “Half of us is women, more than half if you count all the working girls you have on your dole.”

“I don’t,” Cameron said in a clipped tone, cutting his eyes toward the Queen.

“So…let’s get you back to the Hôtel Saint-Germain-des-Pré, sir, ma’am,” he said, gesturing for them to enter the waiting carriage.

Melbourne helped Victoria in, then paused long enough to exchange a look with the man who had made all this happen, merely so the Queen could have a single day in Paris, unencumbered by protocol and all the trappings of her office.

“Thank you again. You exceed expectations continually. I won’t say I’m surprised, but I will say there are those on the Commission who had their doubts. Wellington is not one of them, of course. He’s always been your biggest supporter, he and Hardinge and Stanley.”  

“Not you, sir? And yet you came around.”

“Oh, I never had any doubt at all,” Melbourne’s lips tightened in the ghost of a smile. “We’ll see you back at the Hôtel. I don’t want to keep my wife waiting.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

No sooner had the driver flicked his whip over the horse’s ear, than Victoria turned in her seat to face her husband, eyes shining.

“Oh, my darling, thank you, _thank you_!” She lifted his hand and pressed it to her lips. Lord Melbourne smiled indulgently.

“I wanted to show you Paris,” he said simply.

“As an ordinary woman, strolling the banks of the Seine with her lover…holding hands for all the world to see, as if I were not a Queen whose every move is scrutinized.”

Melbourne lifted his hand to her cheek and gently tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

“As if,” he agreed. “Come now, tell me about your journey. You said nothing to Emily?”

“No, although I felt bad for it. She has been so kind all week. I think we are becoming friends.”

“I am glad. I am also glad you didn’t tell her. The fewer people who know, the better. The female who was left behind – she will accompany the children on any outings?” Melbourne hadn’t seen the woman Cameron chose, but he trusted she would make a tolerable physical substitute for Victoria. People saw what they expected to see, and a very petite, small boned young woman with the right coloring, seen at a distance walking or riding alongside his sister and the royal children on the grounds of Brocket Hall needed no further explanation. Simplest is best, Cameron would say.

“She will. The women who traveled with me…I think it’s so fascinating, and admirable, that they are serving alongside men. They’ve been trained to the same standards, and when I watch them watching our surroundings, I have no doubt they would respond just as a man would. They are even _armed_ , with those clever little pistols1 they carry in their reticule. Or…elsewhere on their persons, I think. Molly showed me how she fit hers in her _garter_.”

“Very resourceful,” Lord Melbourne laughed. “Although when the Commission empowered and funded this initiative, I doubt what they had in mind was an impromptu outing to Paris so we could spend the day together.”

“And the night. It’s not yet morning, Lord M.” Victoria drew his arm around her shoulders and nestled beside him, stroking his thigh with her fingertips.

After the assassination of the Prince Consort, a commission was set up to examine the totality of circumstances surrounding not only that homicide but the recent, less successful attempts on the Queen’s life.  That Inquiry Commission consisted of Sir Robert Peel, Lord Warhncliffe, Sir James Graham, the Earl of Aberdeen, Lord Stanley and Sir Henry Hardinge, with Melbourne representing the Crown. After a great deal of time, money and effort was expended to reach the conclusion that there was no underlying plot, not even a common denominator, discussion necessarily turned to how such catastrophes could be prevented.

The Household Cavalry were the Queen’s official bodyguards, and no one discounted their efficacy in repelling armed invaders sent by a foreign power, or organized radical extremists who might storm the palace. Unfortunately, Melbourne had pointed out, that was not where the immediate threat lay. Each of those who had taken up weapons or raised their hand against the person of the Queen or, in the most immediate instant, her husband, had been a lone wolf, angry, isolated, delusional or seeking infamy. These were no Guy Fawkes conspiracies; these were fellows who had freely discussed their intention in rooming houses, gin mills and seedy brothels. Their families, if they had any, had known of their obsessive interest in the Queen and discounted it as so much nonsense; even Rowan and Mayne conceded that their police force had neither the ability nor inclination to collect and analyze such scuttlebutt, even it was retroactively found to be actionable intelligence.

Lord Melbourne had long shared Victoria’s interest in her predecessor, the only other Queen to reign alone, sharing neither power nor glory with a spouse. Elizabeth had been well served through tumultuous times by her own secret service.2 Led by Sir Francis Walsingham, this network worked in secret and their sole mission was to protect the Queen. A small army functioning outside of any command structure, reporting directly to the Crown, their aim was to safeguard the life of the Queen at any cost. Melbourne was impressed by the personal loyalty of these men and women – Walsingham employed females as well, trained as comprehensively as their male counterparts – and the agility and resourcefulness with which they operated.

Melbourne knew the best way to persuade a politician to try something innovative was to look back at the past, and use precedent to allay an inbred aversion to risk. In the end, he’d countered little resistance to his plan, and funding was guaranteed. This protective service, Victoria’s _secret service_ , would report directly to him, and would be placed under the operational command of a man of his choosing. This man would serve at the pleasure of the Queen, a lifetime appointment.

**

Melbourne had dispensed with both valets, real and pretend, leaving them at his primary Paris accommodation, and so bathed and shaved himself early, while Victoria slept. Wearing only a fine lawn shirt and summer trousers, he interrupted his _toilette_ to begin the delightful process of awakening his wife.

Her hair was tumbled about her face, which was pressed into the pillow so she might escape the sunlight now pouring in through the balcony doors. Melbourne stroked the soft skin of her shoulder, tracing the contour of her arm. Light goosebumps popped up in response to his touch, but she otherwise did not respond except to snuffle and press her face farther into the pillow.

Melbourne contemplated a more leisurely reoccurrence of their nighttime activities. Victoria had had him painfully hard and more than ready by the time they reached their destination. She had taken the lead once they were safely in their suite, frenetically freeing him, falling back on the bed and spreading herself brazenly, already moist and flushed with desire. They had made love once hurriedly, and then again – Melbourne excused himself a moment of self-congratulation – a long, leisurely encore.

But no, he thought…this is Paris, and as many things as I could wish to show her _here_ , there are more out there. So instead of continuing his exploration of her smooth skin and warm flesh, Melbourne threw the covers off in one quick movement and stood back to avoid the feather pillow she swung in his direction.

**

“Just as you said…coffee and rolls while the flower vendors set up their stalls,” Victoria looked about her delightedly, intent on soaking in the sights and sounds of the Paris flower market coming to life.

Victoria wore a casual summer gown, brightly striped and trimmed with a colored ribbon around her narrow waist. Her hair was loosely bound at the back of her neck, and she carried a broad-brimmed straw hat meant to protect her fair skin from the sun. Melbourne thought she looked charmingly like an authentic Parisienne, decidedly informal – even approachable – and he also thought it was far less likely she would be recognized, than he.

She still, however, scrunched up her nose and grimaced at the first taste of her café au lait so Melbourne called for a lemonade instead. They lingered at the outdoor café, shielded by an umbrella overhead, as vendors set out their wares and Les Halles came to life.

Victoria was content enough to sit and watch the life of the city unfold around her. She would, she thought, have been equally content anywhere she was able to see and even smell the beautiful man across from her, to reach across the table uninhibited and lay her hand in his.

She marveled at how strange it all was, how very present and exposed she felt sitting in full view of passersby and fellow early risers, most of whom paid her no notice at all. And those who did, the craggy-faced suburban farmers and fresh-faced city boys running their masters’ errands, flirted and admired with their eyes. Mostly, she enjoyed seeing their admiration turn to envy when they saw the linked hands on the table and understood the distinguished older gentleman was not father but lover of the pretty girl.

“Je t'adore mon amoureux,” Victoria said, looking at their joined hands. With her thumb she caressed the etched gold band he wore to commemorate their marriage, in defiance of fashion and tradition.

“Je t'adore aussi, ma femme,” he said in return. “Shall we walk through the market, down to the quay?” He held out his hand for her as though they were commoners, city-dwellers, and Victoria’s heart skipped a beat. It was unthinkable for her to demonstrate such public affection at home, even with her own husband, just as it was equally unheard-of for a gentleman of Lord Melbourne’s age and station indulge in such displays with his wife.  She placed her hand in his and as their fingers laced together Victoria thought her heart would burst with the sheer joy of it. Here, so far from home, completely unattended, she could finally flaunt her love for the most charming, the most handsome, the most wonderful man in the world. _Let the flower sellers envy us, let those girls there – the ones with the short scalloped hems, so their stockings and an obscene portion of upper leg was revealed – lick their lips and stare at him lustfully. He’s_ mine! He _wants only_ me! Victoria almost skipped, so full of _joi de vivre_   as they made their way through the market.

They stopped to examine jointed wooden puppets which Lord M thought were hideous, and so that Victoria could bury her face in a massive bunch of just-picked flowers, soil still clinging to their stems. She sighed over bolts of gloriously bold printed fabrics, grateful Lord M had remembered to give her maid a purse stuffed with coins and folded bills. It was such a peculiar sensation, walking alone down crowded paths, in such close proximity to other shoppers that Victoria occasionally felt the brush of an arm against hers, imagined she could smell the onion breath of a burly workingman as he maneuvered past. And yet, holding Lord M’s hand, she felt entirely safe and as protected, and not at all alone. _How could I ever be alone as long as he is with me?_ And Victoria marveled at the sheer magic of _them_. _Mrs. Melbourne_ , she tasted the old familiar name once more in her mind, and it made her smile.

They watched a monkey wearing a little red jacket and cap, cavorting about begging coins from the crowd. Victoria realized she didn’t carry money – had never carried money, even though the currency bore her own image – and looked to Lord M. He gave her a fifty-centime piece to offer to the monkey, laughing gaily as small fingers plucked it from her hand.

They found a bird seller by the sound of his menagerie, brightly colored parrots cursing to the delight of onlookers, small parakeets chirping their songs in a great wicker enclosure. Melbourne waited patiently while Victoria stopped at one after another, cooing and coaxing the half-tame birds to approach. At the end of the row, set out on folding tables, were a variety of artificial birds in metal cages. Wound up, they sang and moved about in a most ingenious display. He chose one, turned the metal key and held it up for Victoria to hear the song. She hesitated briefly and then understood, laughing.

“A bird in a gilded cage? For me?"

“A very strange bird, if I do say so. For you? To take back, to remember this day?” Victoria’s eyes filled with tears which she impatiently wiped away when they spilled over her lashes.  

“I will never forget this day, William. Not if I live to be a hundred.” Heedless of the other shoppers, of their own escort discreetly forming an unseen ring of security around them, Victoria laid her hands on his arms to steady herself and stretched on tiptoes, turning her face up to kiss him.

They made one more stop before leaving the market area, at Melbourne’s insistence, so he could have see her image captured by one of the quick-sketch artists who drew pastel portraits. Victoria’s feet ached and the day was almost unpleasantly warm, yet she cared for nothing save the remaining time they had together. Lord Melbourne suggested returning to their suite and before they went up, he asked the concierge to send out for simple sustenance, some icy white wine, bread, cheese and strawberries.

He’d taken off his coat and wore only a loose white shirt and trousers. Victoria stared admiringly at him.“Yes, ma’am? Is something amiss?” Melbourne asked, a small smile dancing about his lips.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Victoria said flatly. He raised a brow.

“That’s a good thing. I don’t want you to leave me either, if you speak in the larger sense. If you talk of returning to London…” he advanced on her, grasping her arms and pulling her to him, “…you must and you will. But not before I give you your fill of me.” Melbourne pushed her backwards towards the bed and, when the back of her knees struck the mattress, he toppled her backwards, lifting her skirts and propping himself over her.

Victoria thrilled at the expression suddenly darkening his features, serious, almost stern. William Lamb was the gentlest, the tenderest of lovers, and she thought she could not want him more than she did then, but when he occasionally became severe, demanding, domineering, she was aware of a darker undercurrent that sent throbbing spasms of lust through her.

When his gaze turned inward and he seemed more intent on satisfying himself than in pleasing her, that was when Victoria felt the greatest sense of her power as a woman. Seeing this most gentle and controlled of men lose himself in his own passion, give himself over entirely to his own spiraling need, she could surrender and join him in oblivion.

As the mantle clock counted down the hours, then minutes, until Cameron and his crew would come to take her away, Melbourne took her without prelude, pushing his way in, parting her and filling her and it almost hurt, except that it was the most wonderful of sensations, and he paced himself, holding back until she moaned and melted under him, spasming again and again. When finally he pushed himself farther inside than she thought possible, when they seemed to merge into one being far, far more than the sum of its parts, then Victoria took the hot essence he pumped into her, and she smiled. “So good,” she whispered unheard against his shoulder. “All mine.”

**

Lord Melbourne stood beside the carriage at the rail station. Cameron was with him, watching them board the train. Victoria was paired with the same nondescript sandy-haired fellow as before; she was accompanied by her own maid. Another couple followed closely behind, along with another lady’s maid. Cameron had offered an offhand explanation once, that his own height and appearance made him far too conspicuous to be paired with the Queen in these charades. He hung back, staying where he could watch and react, to cause a distraction or dictate an orchestrated response. Melbourne cared little what excuse the man gave, so long as his determination to keep distance between himself and the queen didn’t pose needless risk.

“She had a good day, I think. The kind of day queens don’t often experience. Now see her safely back.”

“Aye, sir. When do you return?”

“Another few days only. I have some meetings to attend – no, that sounds too formal. I have some engagements to keep. I believe there is a ball at Windsor next weekend, which of course I must attend.”

“I’m bringing my other brother on, see how he does. Start him out listening, gathering intelligence.”

“Older brother?” Melbourne asked, curious what he might say.

“Older brother. He’s been away, and now he’s back. He has the right stuff to do the job if – if he can be made to want to. And if not, I’ll know and be rid of him.”

“Whatever you decide, I know you’ll do what’s best for the Queen.” This older, illegitimate brother, Melbourne knew, having reviewed a lifetime of reports on the Cameron family, had been in Australia the past ten years. Transported as a felon, he’d made his way back and would be needing a pardon if everything worked out. It didn’t bother Melbourne. He valued the unique talents of this band of protectors, the ability to blend into any crowd, to assess any situation and react instantly, to think on their feet and to let nothing come in the way of accomplishing what they set out to do. Traits common to outlaws and secret agents, if that’s what they were. In service to Queen Victoria, as those first men were to her predecessor, Queen Elizabeth, both remarkable women, capable of inspiring great love, great loyalty and great hatred as well.

Melbourne met Cameron’s gaze, tolerably certain they understood each other, comfortable with the common interest upon which their alliance was based.

They parted, Cameron to board the train and take up a post outside the private car, and Lord Melbourne to return to his hôtel. Each man would spend a sleepless night and each would greet the dawn still gazing at a simple colored pencil drawing. Lord Melbourne had taken his from the artist, pleased at the result, and strolled away with the sitter on his arm. Lord Cameron had waited a few judicious minutes for his, approaching the artist with a fistful of money and an unblinking, baleful stare.

1 The first mini handguns weren't developed until 1852. I claim artistic liberty.

2 If you'd like to read more about [Walsingham's Secret Service](http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/tudors/spying_01.shtml), you can find an interesting overview [here](http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/tudors/spying_01.shtml). There's no reason to think Queen Victoria revived the tradition, but there's no reason to think she didn't either;)


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

Her Majesty the Queen was a trifle out of sorts. Women intuit such things far more readily than men, and at least some of her ladies-in-waiting exchanged glances when Her Majesty was not looking their way. The annual anniversary of her Coronation was only days away, and a ball planned to mark the occasion had been planned for months. As they did twice every year, in June and December, the Queen’s relations descended on Windsor for an extended visit. Even a venue as commodious as Windsor Castle could feel as though it were bursting at the seams, and despite the efforts of her chief steward and the Lord Chamberlain, it was not practical to provide as much distance as might be desirable between the various apartments allocated for the use of such august visitors.

The King of the Belgians, Leopold I, and his Queen Louise-Marie had arrived early that same week, with their retinue of children and servants. This hired king still viewed himself as the rightful occupant of every royal residence, if not for a malignant fate which had snatched the prize from under his nose. Victoria found herself gritting her teeth until her jaw ached, to avoid snapping her displeasure at him each time he encroached on her authority. When she allowed herself to feel anything besides a constant low-grade irritation of the nerves, it was to feel nostalgia for those childhood days when he seemed like such a jolly fellow, showering her with uncritical affection. But Victoria could no more forgive his unceasing attempts to meddle in the affairs of _her_ government and _her_ nation than she could his barely concealed animosity towards her husband. Most infuriating was his assumption that because he sought to control her, Melbourne naturally did likewise.

Her Highness the Dowager Duchess of Kent was pleased to welcome her daughter Feodora and the latter’s husband, stateless Prince Ernst of Hohenlohe-Langenburg. They and their five children were, by the Duchess’s express wish, placed in an apartment well separated from hers, the fond grandmother claiming her fragile nerves could not survive the noise and commotion engendered by this boisterous brood.

Feodora, dear Feodora was in some ways worse, because Victoria had once considered her both ally and confidant. Yet she looked at Victoria with such _sympathy_ , spoke to her as _my poor sister_ , making it plain she considered Victoria to be perpetually grieving for her lost love. And worse, Victoria fumed, when Feodora spoke of Lord M, it was to remark _how_ _good_ he had been to wed her, to step into the barely-cold shoes of a dead man for the sole purpose of offering a _strong shoulder to lean on_ in her _time of need_. Victoria longed to snap back that it wasn’t his _shoulder_ she needed, but rather that other magnificent appendage in his breeches. That, however, would be beyond the pale even between sisters, so instead Victoria satisfied herself with nodding agreeably as Feodora lapsed into poetic references to _only finding true love once_. That, at least, was a sentiment with which she heartily agreed.

 _Had they always been so insufferable?_  Victoria found herself wondering, when she thought she would be driven quite mad by the endless din. Even in a castle as sprawling as this, it seemed that wherever she went she could not be alone. It would not be so unbearable if William was here to laugh with. She missed the way he could communicate volumes with his eyes, a twitch of his lips, those imperceptible changes in expression meant solely for her. But William was overdue.  He had scratched out a note telling her when he would leave Paris, when he anticipated they would board HMY Victoria and Albert and when he would disembark at Dover. His note said she should expect to hear no more until he arrived, as his own party would make as good or better time than any courier he might send. He planned to be back at her side before the family arrived, knowing that Leopold would be delighted to speculate on his absence otherwise, all the more so because he viewed France as his especial sphere of influence, as much or more than England even. Leopold had upset those plans by arriving days earlier than he had first indicated, which of course Lord M could not have predicted.

But now…the belated birthday celebration her mother had planned was hours away and her husband’s absence at that would be pointedly noted and remarked on by her uncle. Victoria reminded herself that her mother was now a firm ally and admirer of William, but she knew the Duchess to be a malleable woman, liable to at least pretend agreement with her brother.

Sir Robert appeared for his weekly audience on Thursday rather than Friday, a deviation necessitated by the anniversary of the Coronation and his own less-than-ecstatic determination to attend with Lady Peel. Victoria listened attentively to his summary report on the matters reviewed by the Commons, his dry, ponderous manner prosing on as he described the recommendations of the Committee in the case of "Howard v. Gossett" that a writ of error should be brought upon the judgment of the Court of Queen's Bench, and a matter brought forth by Mr. Hume, concerning the manner of Enforcing Observance of Treaty with Buenos Ayres. The Lords had again considered the Landlords and Tenants Bill, Lord Portman seconding the motion to permit only limited arguments before recommending it be tabled another six months. Lord Beaumont opposed it as useless while the Duke of Richmond was in favor. Victoria privately agreed with the Duke that it was desirable that the tenant should have some security.

She signed those few papers which required endorsement, all the while casting about for some reason to bring up what news there might be from France – she could hardly ask after her own husband. Her Prime Minister saved her the need by asking offhandedly, as he packed up his case, what news she had from Lord Melbourne. He and Lord Aberdeen had approved the trip, so long as it was carried out as a private citizen, no more, and Melbourne avoided such formal audiences as might raise suspicion he was acting either for or in subversion of, Her Majesty’s government.

 _So, he knows no more than I_. Victoria became aware Peel had changed the subject while her mind wandered.

“—wet summer,” he concluded, as Victoria sought to capture his meaning. Presumably recognizing her confusion, Peel explained once more. “Nothing important, ma’am. I only said, it promises to be a wet summer. The Irish farmers have not yet gotten their crops in the ground and our own coast has been battered by the past few days’ storms. It’s been unseasonably hot in France, but they were complaining of drought where our own farmers rue the excessive rain. Last night’s storm was the worst yet; they’ve lost some of the fishing fleet when a monster wave overturned the boats heading to shore.”

Victoria’s mind was wandering once more, and she exerted herself to attend to her minister.

“Our prayers are with those poor souls who have been affected,” she murmured, keeping her eyes down rather than allow him to see how little she was invested in the subject at present. _Of course, we’re concerned,_ she chided herself. _But there’s little I can do from here. When William returns we can discuss whether there’s some fitting relief we can offer_.

Peel bowed over her hand. “Lady Peel is eagerly anticipating your ball, ma’am. Please, be sure to present her.” He seemed especially gratified by her mention of his wife, and Victoria was forcibly reminded of Lord M’s oft-repeated reminders that she needed to show Peel such overtures in order to put him at ease and allow him to shine.

When he’d left, Victoria sat at her desk for several minutes, lost in thought. Then, before she could change her mind, she wrote a note, sealed it and summoned a courier.

For that evening’s dinner the Queen specified that the gentlemen were to don the hated Windsor uniform, dark blue heavily embellished with gold braid and insignia. Since no one looked as fine as her own husband in the uniform, she privately conceded requiring the rest to do so had a great deal more to do with the discomfort than any desire to appreciate the appearance of her uncle, her cousins and her half-brother-in-law. _Perhaps_ , she calculated, _if they are uncomfortable enough they won’t prolong this evening interminably._ A small cautionary voice added, _and perhaps they won’t be as liable to cause trouble._

All through that day, when footfalls sounded in the corridor, when the intermittent bursts of noise engendered by a bevy of nursemaids chasing their charges through the palace, when the sound of horses’ bridles jingling came through an open window, Victoria’s heart stopped and she tuned out every other sound, waiting to hear _him_.

After she’d dressed for dinner Victoria went to the nursery to spend a few minutes with her children. Both Liam and Lily especially liked the opportunity to see her dressed in finery, bejeweled and wearing the hooped skirts she loathed. The Duchess of Kent accompanied her.

A suggestion that the visiting children – her uncle’s three and Feodora’s six – be housed separately from their parents, in the royal nursery had been firmly vetoed, and, had he been consulted, no one would have been more grateful than His Royal Highness Prince William of Wales. Her son was a gentle, self-possessed boy who hung back from the rowdy, boisterous pack of interlopers. He showed them the same well-bred and trained courtesy he showed all those with whom he came in contact, from the foreign dignitaries to whom he was presented, to the young housemaids and pages of the palace. Victoria had a special fondness for her eldest child, seeing in him so much of his father. Like Lord M, Prince Liam preferred to hang back and avoid the rough-and-tumble skirmishes which broke out amongst the older children. While not especially shy, he was a sensitive boy more comfortable with adults and Victoria, herself a solitary child preferring books and pets, understood his reticence.

She spent a half hour in the nursery, stroking her son’s silky brown curls and listening to his detailed recitation of a story he was writing to amuse his sister, lifting a freshly-bathed Princess Elizabeth onto her lap and attempting with mixed results to distract the little girl from incessantly demanding her father.

As she suspected he would, her uncle Leopold was waiting to exercise his prerogative to escort her into dinner. Victoria neatly evaded him by keeping her own arm linked with her mother’s.

In the drawing room afterward, with great fanfare, Leopold presented his birthday gift to Victoria, along with a letter of congratulations he demanded she read aloud for the edification of those assembled. The gift was a framed portrait of his late wife, the Princess Charlotte, whose premature demise cost him his hope of the English crown. Victoria glanced at his present wife, Queen Louise of Orléans, daughter of Louis-Phillipe. Whether or not theirs was a love match, she thought it could not be comfortable to be continually reminded of his poor dear Charlotte. She too had married a widower, but one far more sensitive than Leopold could ever be.

Sighing at the unavoidable necessity, Victoria began reading the lengthy letter Leopold had written a month before, on her birthday.

_Laeken, 21 May 1845_

_My dearest and most beloved Victoria – receive my sincerest and most heartfelt good wishes on the reappearance of your birthday. I need not dwell on my sentiments of devotion to you; they began with your life and will end only with mine. The only claim I make is to be remembered with some little affection. Thank heaven, I have little to wish you, than that you find what happiness you can despite the circumstances of life are your cross to bear._

_My gift is Charlotte’s portrait. The face is extremely like, the hair a little too fair. I take this opportunity to repeat that Charlotte was a noble-minded and highly gifted creature. She was nervous, she could be violent, but then she was full of repentance for it and her disposition highly generous._

_I am the more bound to say this, as I understood you had some notion that she had been very imperious and not mistress of her temper. Before her marriage some people by dint of flattery had tried to give her masculine tastes, and in short had pushed her to become one day a sort of Queen Elizabeth. But she was particularly determined to be a good an obedient wife._

_Your own experience might have convinced you that real affection changes many sentiments that may have been implanted in the mind of a young girl by those who seek to influence for their own advantage by dint of a mature and more experienced masculine presence, If only dear Albert had lived you likewise would have broken free of such pernicious influence and cleaved only onto your husband. Alas, the Almighty did not grant your husband length of days. _

_With Charlotte it was more meritorious, as from a very early period she was considered the heiress of the Crown and the Whigs flattered her extremely, as they did you._

_I will end here my souvenir of poor dear Charlotte, but I thought that the subject could not but be interesting to you. Her constancy in wishing to marry me, which she maintained under difficulties of every description, could have been the foundation of all that touched you after your great grief._

_Forgive my long letter and see in it what it really is, a token of the great affection I have for you. Ever your devoted Uncle – Leopold R.”_

Victoria had ceased reading aloud after the first paragraph; as she silently read the rest she thought it impossible she would hold her temper in check. When she’d finished, Victoria folded it carefully, her movements slow and deliberate.

Looking up, her gaze rested first on her mother, looking visibly anxious, her round blue eyes fixed straight ahead. Rather than looking next at her uncle, Victoria scanned the room. In addition to her family, her lady attendants sat in a half circle, clustered together apart from the Coburgs. The younger maids appeared disinterested, watching their mistress only for some sign their services were needed. Only the eldest amongst them, Lady Emma Portman, appeared alert to the Queen’s very dangerous mood. When she met Victoria’s gaze, her own contained a caution and she lifted her chin as though to emphasize the warning. Victoria could hear Lord M’s voice in her mind, as though Emma were channeling his presence, steadying her.

“How well your words call to mind all I’ve heard of dear cousin Charlotte. I wish I had known her. By all accounts, she was a lively, engaging person before her marriage. I believe I would have quite liked her _then_.” She glanced at the portrait which had accompanied his letter.

“Pray take that to Mr. Penge and ask him to find room for it somewhere suitable,” she said dismissively to the footman still holding it.

Victoria then took a glass of Madeira from the tray being passed. She had to actively refrain from emptying it in one long gulp. _This night can’t end soon enough!_ _Hell and damnation, Lord M, I can’t bear this alone_.

**

A constant rain fell all night long, running off the already-soaked earth. Victoria sat in the window, watching, waiting. Finally, despite herself, she dozed off, still sitting up, her head resting against the wall.

**

The ball couldn’t be cancelled at such short notice; any attempt to do so would be sensationalized, causing the sort of scandal she hoped to avoid. Reasoning with herself, Victoria conceded that she was behaving foolishly. Men journeyed much farther than France, and on far riskier missions. She thought of Lord Auckland, those gentlemen who ventured to India and the Crown Colony of Singapore, of those who sailed thousands of miles to Canada – her own father included – and returned safely. How foolish to become so anxious only because William was a few days late returning from France aboard the royal yacht – with a naval escort and several tenders, no less.

Victoria knew that Lord M was the last person to encourage such silly dependence – he took pride in her independence as both sovereign and spouse, and had devoted all his considerable talents to helping her develop confidence in her own self-reliance. _And that is well and good, for a Queen_ , Victoria emphatically retorted to that scolding inner voice. _It is not as Queen that I need him. I can manage government affairs, I can handle the most obstreperous minister, the most devious ambassador. It is as a woman that I am not wholly myself without him_.

Thinking of her uncle Leopold and his cloying insistence that in order to be _womanly_ one must be _subservient_ , every feeling revolted. _I am not subservient!_ _And if I tried, William would rebuke me._ _Does needing someone as much as one needs air to breathe mean subservience? Does it mean I am needy and dependent? Never! Only…I love him. He is the only man I’ve ever loved, or will ever love. Without him…I am not complete._

Victoria was more than disappointed that Billy Cameron had not yet reported back to her, in response to the note she’d sent him. What good were secret agents, when they couldn’t locate the Queen’s consort, his party and an entire naval flotilla over a span of eighteen nautical miles? Had he been delayed in Paris? Had there been a rail accident? Was he simply extending his visit in whatever English expatriate community he had chosen to linger? And if there was no news, what on earth possessed Cameron to think he did not have to report his failure? Victoria began reciting her grievances, rehearsing them in her mind to prepare for the moment the former soldier finally sauntered in, with his usual lack of deference, his most inappropriate informality, his manner half-amused as though everything was a joking matter.

Determined to make Lord M proud, even _in absentia_ , Victoria allowed her dressers to construct a _coiffeur_ designed to look simple, romantically disheveled, massed curls piled high on her head, soft fine hair escaping to frame her face with feathery tendrils. Her gown, of a fine seafoam-shaded silk embroidered with silver thread forming intricate shapes, had a full skirt and daringly low-cut bodice. Victoria took special pride in her bare shoulders, remembering that first true compliment Lord M had paid her, when she’d thrilled to the knowledge he did see her as a woman despite his careful courtesy. She wanted so badly to feel his breath against her neck, his lips kissing her just _there_ , in the hollow of her collarbone. Instead she accepted a fine silvery wrap, draping it low over her arms, and went to meet her guests and open the ball.

Leopold claimed right of precedence, and Victoria, knowing he would have done so gleefully if her husband had been standing at her side, laid her fingertips on his arm without once looking up at him. They opened the ball together, the King of the Belgians leading his niece around the floor in a waltz which felt, to Victoria, as stiff as though she were partnered with a marionette. As soon as the music ended she stalked away to claim her seat on the dais, determined to sit out the rest of the evening. She summoned Lady Portman to her side, certain that Emma’s dry, sarcastic wit was the only conversation she could bear.

Caring little for her mother’s concerned glances or her uncle’s smug, censorious ones, Victoria drained one glass of champagne and, without looking up, set it on a tray and took another.

“When was William expected, ma’am?” Lady Portman asked in a low voice entirely devoid of concern. For a moment Victoria was aware of an urge to snap her response, but in the end decided such emotionless curiosity was more appealing than any alternative more likely to exacerbate her own concern. She knew well that Emma’s feelings had once been more than those of mere friendship; she suspected without wanting to know that they had a history of some sort together, beyond merely being part of the same youthful cohort. At any rate, she knew that Emma was perhaps the one person she could trust to make Lord M’s well being her priority, and conceded the older woman had been a good friend to both of them since the beginning.

“Two days ago, Emma. At the latest. And no word from him since.” They were both silent, digesting the words Victoria had not yet spoken aloud.

Then Lady Portman, in her inimical dry tone, responded. “He’ll arrive soon, and with some interesting tale to tell. William Lamb has a knack for such things.”

“You’re so sure, Emma,” Victoria said skeptically.

“I am, ma’am. And you are too. If anything were amiss – seriously wrong – we’d know it without being told.” Victoria thought about that, considering. She had had such a constant sense of low-grade anxiety these past days, but how much of that stemmed from her own need and how much could be attributed to…intuition, if that’s what Emma referred to?

Lady Portman beckoned for a footman.

“We can have one more glass, I think. And then no more. Without William at hand, I’m not up to the task of looking out for you myself, and that uncle of yours is liable to say something foolish to trigger your temper. Ma’am.”

Lady Portman began laughing, such a happy sound that Victoria was startled, thinking her stalwart attendant to be amused by her own sally. She glanced at her and then followed her gaze across the crowded ballroom.

“I am accustomed to being right, ma’am…but not often am I right _that soon_.”

There were a hundred or more dancers moving about the floor in an energetic polka, and several dozens more clustered around the walls, but Victoria saw only one, a man of no more than average height, but so distinguished in his evening clothes, so handsome, so unmistakably _him_ that her heart soared. She might have ran straight through the crowd, pushing aside any who hindered her progress, but Lady Portman laid a staying hand on her arm, arresting her movement. In her mind’s eye Victoria imagined the shocked faces of her guests, if their Queen were to lift her skirts and _run_ , throw herself into her husband’s arms, wrap arms and legs around him and cling to him. The notion was so improbably, deliciously, perfectly outrageous that Victoria laughed too.


	7. Chapter 7

_HMY Victoria and Albert, 1845_

When Melbourne stepped into the ballroom he indicated with a small shake of his head that he was not to be announced. The ball was well underway and he had no interest in calling more attention than necessary to his late arrival. And there was no need. Heads swiveled, lips moved, the very movement of the swirling dancers seemed to slow. All Melbourne could see was _her_. Their eyes met, improbably but surely, across the length of the room. How he knew that, he would not have been able to say, but it was fact nonetheless, their connection clicking into place.

His gaze never left her, nor hers him, as he wove through the assembly, nodding vacantly left and right to those who greeted him, his lips tightening into a dreamy disengaged smile as he looked without seeing friends who addressed him. When he was no more than ten feet from the dais Victoria absently handed off the champagne flute in her hand, assuming someone would take it, and stood.

Melbourne found himself physically unable to drop to one knee in his usual formal greeting, or even bow as any gentleman should. All he could manage was to take the small hand she held out and raise it to his lips, kissing small soft fingers, inhaling her scent, the lotion on her skin, her own essence.

He didn’t notice when tears welled up in his eyes, or when they rolled down his cheeks unhindered. Victoria did; she moved the hand he still kissed and gently caught the errant tear on the pad of her thumb.

The unearthly sense of peace, of illimitable joy in the sheer beauty and wonder of life, _his_ life, that had been with him the past day, still suffused him, coloring the moment and giving it focus. Melbourne found he couldn’t speak, couldn’t find any words adequate to the moment. After a long interval he shook his head and cleared his throat, smiling sheepishly.

“I find I’m quite happy to be home, ma’am,” he managed to say, and Victoria only smiled in return, unwilling to break the look which held them rivetted in place. Then he heard the unmistakably unctuous tones of King Leopold of Belgium.

**

Her Majesty’s Yacht the Victoria and Albert had been commissioned in April of 1843, just half a year before the Prince Consort’s untimely death. It was the first royal yacht not to be powered by sail, but rather a steam engine and spanned two hundred feet in length. Outfitted with every luxury, the royal vessel had been designed by Sir William Symonds, a not-uncontroversial choice. Symonds was a faithful Whig who had moved through the ranks of political appointments under the auspices of his party mentors. The selection of a self-taught amateur ship-designer rather than a professional shipwright was viewed derisively by professional naval architects trained at the first School of Naval Architecture, and traditional Master Shipwrights from the Royal Dockyards. By June of 1845 influential Tories had sent out several experimental squadrons to review the soundness of Symonds’ designs. It was reported back to First Lord of the Sea Ellenborough that the success of Symonds' designs depended on the skill of their captains. They handled badly under clumsy ones, or ones opposed to him, but very well under skilled commanders. They did, however, handle adequately overall...except in bad weather.

The royal yacht, although technically part of the Navy fleet, was exempt from this scrutiny and no word of any concerns reached the highest levels of Government, who might have brought them to the personal attention of Her Majesty.

While northern England, Scotland and Ireland were experiencing an unusually cold wet spring, western Europe, particularly France and Spain, had suffered under extraordinary dry heat the entire month of June. Most nights were alive with the crack of thunder and bolts of heat lightning, but any rain which fell came so hard and fast it ran off before the parched ground could absorb it.

Lord Melbourne paid little heed to the weather except to bemoan the constant, unremitting heat, more suited to the East than late spring in western Europe. Melbourne called on those who invited him, expatriates, old friends and their connections and some of the rising French financiers, counterpart to those in the City whose Exchange Funds gave them real power. He was too much a Whig gentleman to feel entirely comfortable in the presence of these brash, strong-willed men who considered themselves masters of the universe. Palmerston was long since ready to return to England, unable to bear feeling superfluous, and Fred likewise seemed disinterested in the subtle intelligence gathering Lord Melbourne felt he could not step away from. So long as people were talking, he listened. The invitation which resulted in their first delay came as a surprise via messenger the evening before they were to depart. Melbourne had sent off his last short note to Victoria and was preparing to retire when he received an invitation he felt he could not refuse.

Baron James Mayer Rothschild of the great banking family begged the honor of Viscount Melbourne’s presence the following day, in a handwritten note which alluded to the length of his stay and imminent departure in excusing such an impromptu summons. Melbourne assumed that someone of Rothschild’s stature did nothing by accident, and the inclusion of such details made it clear he had been the object of inquiry, if not scrutiny, during his stay. He was politely requested to refrain from bringing Lord Palmerston or Baron Beauvale, so as not to bore them with discussions which would not concern them in their separate spheres of interest and influence.

James de Rothschild put together the loan package to stabilize the finances of the new government and a second loan in 1834, effectively granting him a great deal of control over the French government, particularly King Louis-Phillipe himself. Likewise, Rothschild money financed King Leopold of Belgium and had recently bought up controlling interest in the Spanish government’s mining industry. Melbourne knew that a major portion of the Rothschild business consisted of selling French government bonds to French investors through London to protect their anonymity, thus they had their tentacles in the British Exchange as well as some influential members of parliament and even a few ministers in their pocket. Melbourne had long since been consumed by curiosity about this all-powerful commercial family, modern-day Medicis, and had no intention of forgoing an opportunity to learn what he could.

Melbourne told them what little he knew at breakfast the following morning. He encouraged his brother and brother-in-law to leave as planned and assured them he would catch up to them before they reached the coast, or charter a vessel and follow behind. They briefly discussed the various reasons which might have inspired such an invitation, to which Melbourne responded reasonably enough that he could only find out by talking to the man.

At exactly four o’clock that afternoon, instead of disembarking at Dover and touching English soil once more, Lord Melbourne was deposited in the grand glazed brick courtyard of 2 rue Saint-Florentin on the Place de la Concorde.

**

Victoria’s blue eyes were dark and stormy and her mouth set in a line which promised the eruption of temper was imminent. Melbourne could only feel tender amusement at her spitting, hissing fury in his defense; he himself felt so mellow, so at peace with the world, that he only tucked her small hand in his arm and pressed it meaningfully.

“I see you have arrived in time to mark this memorable anniversary. It is unfortunate you could not be here to celebrate the anniversary of her birth as well. Or perhaps not, it was only a _family_ gathering you missed.” Lord Melbourne smiled beatifically at his wife’s uncle, and then down at her.

“I celebrate the anniversary of _my wife’s_ birth every day, sir. But I am pleased that you enjoyed the occasion. Where is your Queen? I should like to pay my respects.” Victoria looked up at Melbourne, feeling almost frustrated that he did not take offense at her uncle’s insufferable attitude.

Leopold stared at Melbourne, seemingly at a loss.

“Your wife, Queen Louise?” Melbourne prompted helpfully, his tone gently questioning.

As soon as the door had closed behind them in their private apartments, Victoria spun about and looked up at her husband.

“I was so worried!” She exclaimed. “I – I do not question you, I was only so very worried! I was so sure something happened.”

Melbourne held her face with exquisite gentleness. He pressed his lips to her eyes, her temples, her jawline, without breaking the eye contact which held them transfixed.

“I am sorry I plagued you,” he whispered. “Perhaps I am not worthy of such concern.”

“Oh, my God, William!” Victoria exhaled, exasperated. “Don’t be foolish. You are…you are everything to me. Of _course,_ I worry! That’s what wives do!”

“Not all wives, my love. But I am touched you think so.” His voice was teasing now and Victoria smiled mistily. She swayed into him, needing to feel his body against hers, and was startled to hear him suck in his breath sharply and tense.

“William?” She stepped back and looked at him closely.

“Never mind, my love. I am just a bit sore. Age, and the rigors of travel.” He attempted a sheepish smile, but Victoria was not persuaded. She reached out and laid the palm of her hand against his chest, her brows furrowed.

“Come then, dispense with your valet and I will help you undress.” The words should have been said with seductive intent, but instead sounded stern coming from her lips. Melbourne hesitated, then threw up his hands in resignation.

“If you insist.”

**

Melbourne had left the Rothschilds’ after nine that evening, deep in thought. It had been a most remarkably informative visit and he looked forward to processing what he had learned. With the effortless efficiency of unimaginably vast wealth, one of the Baron’s many assistants had had his valets and his luggage brought from the hôtel. A gleaming post-chaise and four was waiting to deliver them all to the Baron’s private train, which would deliver him to the port where the royal yacht was waiting. As it turned out, despite being a day late, they were not yet ready to depart. A routine engineering inspection had identified seals in dire need of replacement, ruptured by a faulty bearing in the 420-horsepower engine, and so the idle crew and restless passengers waited dockside, scanning the still calm Channel waters.

Melbourne’s first thought was for Victoria, no doubt frustrated by the delay and concerned at not having word. He consulted with the captain of the Navy frigate which would provide their escort and was assured that, with their departure imminent, no courier would find swifter means of reaching home shores than they themselves would.

Men stripped to the waist, covered in grease and sweat, worked through the night to strip down the mighty engine, seat the new bearings and put the whole back together in time for a dawn departure. The local harbormaster came on board just as they were ready to depart and conducted a hurried conversation with the yacht’s captain and first mate. As Melbourne watched from the high deck chair he had commandeered for the transit, they seemed to be discussing some matter quite intently. The day had dawned clear and hazy-bright, the eastern sky a rosy red as though promising another day of nearly unbearable heat.

Melbourne clutched a mug of the strong seaman’s black brew, deliberately facing west, toward home. He considered his trip had been profitable, although nothing he’d learned, no contacts he’d made, rivaled that of the last evening with Baron de Rothschild. Nonetheless, at present all he could think of was _home_ , of the fresh green of England, of the clean well-appointed apartments which had gradually become as much home as Brocket Hall because she was there.

 _Ah, Victoria,_ he thought wistfully. _I have become that creature despised more than any other by the young man I was– a happily domesticated husband, content to remain at his wife’s side, watching his family grow._ He smirked a little at the thought. _If it means I am tied to my wife’s apron strings – or crown – so be it. There’s no place else I want to be._ As he’d reflected so often before, he had nearly everything he had ever wanted, could ever want. The only thing he still craved with desperate futility was the one thing he could not control – _time_. Time to lay with Victoria, laugh with her, love her. A thousand years would not be enough time, and they had had so little to start with. He could only make the most of every day they would have.

Melbourne looked back in time to see the harbormaster leap off the ship, stomping angrily as he walked away waving his arms. Soon after they were underway.

**

Feeling foolish, wanting to lighten the moment with some witticism, Melbourne stood arms akimbo as Victoria’s small hands gingerly ran down his sides. She stopped when she came to the white bandage wrapped around his torso.

“Shall I stop here? We’re only getting to the good part and I’m already quite aroused.” He spoke lightly, but his teeth were clenched and his face stony.

“My darling, what happened to you? Not how – you will tell me that later – but what? Has a doctor seen this?”

She let the hem of his white lawn shirt fall once more, covering the garish dark bruises which covered his lean torso. Following their path with her eyes, she looked to him for permission before reaching to unbutton his trousers. True to his word, Melbourne was indeed aroused, despite the considerable amount of pain he was in.  He had, inexplicably, been semi-erect for much of the time since he’d regained consciousness, thinking almost constantly of that moment when he would lay with her once more, feel her lips and hands on him, feel her soft skin and succulent flesh under his own. The sheer joy of being alive, after one had come so close to death – Melbourne had heard bawdy tales of just such a reaction, men at war going directly from the heat of battle to the nearest camp follower for release. A natural enough reaction to survival in the face of near-certain death, an observation made very recently by the former infantryman whose job it had been to protect him.

He loosened his own trousers and let them fall, stepping out of them wearing only his shirt, falling to his thighs. Victoria gasped at the giant bruise running from hip to knee, the ragged gash sewn with coarse thread across the muscle of his upper leg.

“It looks far worse than it is, sweetheart. We had a – rough crossing. If you think this looks bad, I’m afraid for your reaction when you see the ship. I fear it needs significant refitting, unless you decide it should be put out to salvage.”

“How can you talk so – so casually?” Victoria’s voice was sharp, near to breaking. She sat suddenly, as though fearing her legs would not hold her. Melbourne cupped the back of her head in his hands lovingly and waited, to see whether she would be angry or give in to her fear instead. She surprised him, looking up with concern but speaking in a calm, low voice.

“My poor darling, you must be in a great deal of pain. Yet you came to that silly ball instead of going straight to bed, you put up with my uncle Leopold, you…you even waltzed with me! You must have been in so much pain, yet you _danced_ with me!”

While she spoke, she stroked his inner thigh, where the bruising had not spread, and despite his very substantial overall discomfort Melbourne’s erection grew more demanding, bobbing of its own accord toward her.

As he looked down at her with amazed adoration she cupped his sac in one hand and took hold of his shaft in the other, plying him expertly, then sliding her lips down over him until he reached the back of her throat.

**

They were still in sight of the harbor when Melbourne was joined by his brother-in-law on deck.

“They’re saying we should have waited until the storm passed,” Palmerston said, looking to the south horizon where dark purplish storm clouds were banked, growing while they watched. “The purser only defers to the captain, but some of the men are grumbling about it.”

“The tenders are hanging back. I suspect that’s to avoid being driven into us, if the seas become rough,” Melbourne observed. “Not that I’m any sailor but it seems obvious enough. That must be what the harbormaster came to tell our captain.”

“Less than twenty miles from our own coast,” Palmerston observed. “We should be able to outrun it?” Melbourne heard the question in his voice and shrugged.

“After all, not much can happen here. We’re not in the open ocean – the North Atlantic, now there’s a place I hope to never find myself. Or the North Sea. But the Channel--?”

“You must know parts of the Channel are a veritable graveyard. We learned about the Great Storm of 1703 when we were schoolboys. More than 1,000 seamen died on the Goodwin Sands during that storm. And in ‘09 the Admiral Gardner went down just off the coast of Kent. The East India Company has lost three ships in the patch of sea we’ll be traveling by, if we’re not blown off course.”

Melbourne spoke in the pedantic tone he often adopted when reciting some bit of esoteric knowledge in his whimsical, unconcerned fashion. Palmerston looked at him skeptically.

“If that’s so, you seem awfully unconcerned.” A gust of wind came up suddenly, buffeting him so that he clutched the back of the sea chair for support. Melbourne’s hair was blown about and he slit his eyes against the sea spray driven onto the deck in a horizontal blast.

“There’s no reason to be concerned when there’s nothing we can do about it. I suspect they’ll be telling us to go below shortly. I prefer to ride it out on top as long as I can. One feels less helpless staring fate in the face.” Palmerston saw his brother-in-law’s customarily sweet smile, his mild expression, and huffed angrily. Melbourne clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m not at all unconcerned, man. I’m merely conceding that at this point there’s nothing either of us can do to alter what’s in store. Rank, fortune – all of it counts for nothing out here. We’re only witnesses to whatever bit of history will be made here today.”

A wave washed over the deck and for the first time Melbourne roused himself to betray the mildest reaction.

“This deck isn’t draining the seawater away. Surely that can’t be right?” It was a rhetorical question and both men knew it. “If another wave like that hits us –“ As he spoke, a second wave rose higher than the deck on which they stood, a wall of water rising up, up, up until it blocked out the light. Melbourne had mere seconds to brace himself, aware that without sea harnessing they were both at risk of being washed overboard when the wave crashed down. And then it did, and he was aware of nothing save smothering blackness and the world turning upside down.

**

Melbourne was swaying on his feet, clutching Victoria. He was close to losing consciousness, whether from the ecstasy of his own release as she drew every last bit of pleasure from him, or from the dull throbbing ache of his broken ribs, his recently punctured lung and his battered leg, he did not know. As soon as he could, he heaved a great sigh and collapsed onto the bed, taking her with him.

“You are wonderful, Mrs. Melbourne,” he breathed the words with his exhalation, lips pressed against her hair to hide the tears streaming down his face.

“And now…you will let me summon a physician.” It was no question; he knew from her firm tone that she would brook no refusal, and he admitted to himself that he was in no fit state to refuse medical care.

“Yes, my love. Only – we will wait until tomorrow morning? Tonight, I want to sleep with you in my arms. It’s all I’ve wanted for so very long now. Well…” he smirked a little, remembering what she had just done for him. “ _Almost_ all.”

“And…when you’ve rested, you will tell me everything. I want to understand what happened.”

“Yes, ma’am. I have much to tell you, in fact. The storm is the least of it. I had a most enlightening encounter which, although the cause of my delayed departure, will prove, I think, to be well worth the price.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most severe storms in the English channel take place during the winter months, and while the other storms and shipwrecks mentioned are historically accurate, a June storm as sudden and severe as the one described in this and the next chapter are purely invented. 
> 
> Details about the royal yacht’s design are accurate but a catastrophic event never happened IRL. 
> 
> There are other mixes of fact and fantasy.


	8. Chapter 8

_Dover Harbor_

Birds were chirping merrily outside the open window and the smell of fresh-cut grass reminded Lord Melbourne forcefully of the beauty of the world around him even before he opened his eyes. As soon as his mind awakened from slumber he was aware of competing sensations, physical and emotional. Physically, the pain in his side sharpened, nearly causing him to gasp, where muscle and cartilage seemed to have stiffened during his hours of repose, and his right leg throbbed with every beat of his heart. Emotionally, that unearthly sense of peace and light still filled every corner of his being, a near-euphoric state of which he first became aware when he opened his eyes to a world turned upside down and understood that he’d been given back his life.

His wife was no longer beside him, a fact he quickly ascertained with something like gratitude, knowing that his first attempts to move, to tend to the strident demands of nature and compose himself, would be ungainly, stiff and clumsy. _Vanity, vanity_ , he chuckled inwardly, conceding it was so. The intimacy of marriage was truly a wonderful thing, but one which could only be sustained by some degree of privacy and illusion.

Melbourne permitted a groan to escape his throat when he used his arms to push himself up, then swung his legs to the floor. _If only I could have managed to injure my bad leg_ , he observed ruefully, _the one which already gives me hesitation rather than unthinking compliance when I require it to move._ But even these thoughts, and cool assessment of his physical infirmities, did not dispel that golden cloud which seemed to hover about him. William Lamb had struggled his entire life to tame unseemly, unruly strong emotion, and present to the world a benign, nonchalant image that was far from the truth of the inner man.

Melbourne felt awash in a peaceful glow. It was not to be confused with fatalism, for he took inventory and knew that most of his old attachments were still intact – to her, his love for her the mainspring of his existence; to the hackneyed, tattered traditions of his society and the island nation he called home, to those still rather malleable beliefs which guided his actions. But in those _seconds_? _minutes_? he had spent surrendering to the seeming inevitability of his own imminent death, Melbourne had felt himself emptied of all negative emotions. He’d read of such things – later, in the calm aftermath, while men worked frantically around him and he gave himself into their capable hands, he recollected treatises on the subject, eastern masters who described such spiritual purification. He knew it would eventually fade, but for now he felt himself to be borne along on currents which made him feel at one with the universe. An audible chuckle broke out at that last bit of whimsy, ending in an equally audible groan when his broken ribs protested.

Aware he must look a sight, smiling to himself, Melbourne did what was necessary, concentrating on forcing his sore body to respond and ignoring the pain – pain is life, pain proves I’m still here and this is not an afterlife dream. He wet his hands and ran them through his hair in an attempt to subdue wayward curls – _high time I saw the barber, despite her inevitable protestations_ – and struggled into his dressing gown with the least possible movement.

He heard sounds from his small private drawing room and strolled in, determined he would not look as invalidish as he felt. Victoria was directing a footman to set out the silver coffee service and covered dishes on the low table. Behind her, Henry Fox stood, carrying his medical bag. He was not attended by his apprentice today; perhaps the younger Cameron brother had completed his education and gone back into the field, Melbourne thought idly, recollecting the elder brother saying something to that effect the day before.

**

They had limped into port, the royal yacht towed behind the larger of the tenders, escorted by the frigate _Trafalgar_ , dispatched to make the round trip as protection and naval escort for the Queen’s consort.

Tall enough to have a clear view, Billy Cameron immediately identified the man he sought, walking between the other two lords. He paused, intending to go forward and meet them, decided that he would only be in the way, and instead opted to speak to his own man, borne on a stretcher carried by two sailors.

Cameron had to leaned over to hear him at all, and ended up crouching by his side to understand the urgent muttered words flowing seemingly unstoppable from his battered face and broken jaw.

When the monologue ended with a great shuddering breath, Cameron understood tolerably well. His man would have acquitted himself satisfactorily if there had been an attack – he was a fellow veteran of the Army of India, had served under Cameron in some pretty severe fixed battles – but no one can fight the sea.

“You did what you could, Garrett. I’ll see to His Lordship now.”

The man gripped his arm and Cameron saw the ragged bloody crescents where his nails had been torn out. “Tell’im thank you from me. I have hi’lorship to thank for my life, if I make it, and if I don’t at least I die on good British soil and not drowned, a death I wouldn’t wish on m’worst enemy.”

He spoke to the senior officer who had approached them, identifying himself and his interests. They were agreed on the fact that the Queen’s husband was their priority – assessing his physical condition, treating what injuries he had and getting him speedily on his way to London.

Lord Melbourne was walking on his own when they stepped off the gangplank, and Cameron conceded the former First Lord had a senior commander’s bearing, minus the arrogance of those at flag rank. Melbourne’s habitual good humor and mild, nonchalant manner did not detract from that impression in Billy Cameron’s eyes; an impudent, carefree attitude was the guise he himself most frequently adopted.

He had long since learned to grudgingly admire Melbourne’s good sense, and admit to himself it might not be luck alone which had won him the heart of such a woman. He now added courage and the kind of cool head in a crisis any military man must admire, to his assessment of Melbourne’s character.

The Board of Admiralty steam yacht Black Eagle had come alongside Trafalgar and Sir George Cockburn himself prepared to ceremoniously disembark. The first words Melbourne addressed to Cameron by way of greeting were typical of the man he was coming to understand.

“Good Lord, get me the hell out of here!” Melbourne exhorted. Cameron laughed, relieved to see he would have little explaining to do back at Windsor. His Lordship was in fine fettle and able to deal with Her Majesty himself.

They availed themselves of a private car, not luxuriously appointed but private and comfortable enough, and for once Lord Melbourne did not balk at the royal prerogative by which all passengers had been unceremoniously expelled. A naval physician had been summoned to accompany them and Lord Melbourne insisted what could be done, must be done, to make his injured bodyguard more comfortable for the journey. Only then did he allow himself to be examined.

As soon as that inevitable unpleasantness was complete Melbourne called for a bottle to be brought, his normally raspy voice only a bit more winded than usual. They all laughed easily as His Lordship bantered easily with his two boon companions. When Cameron took his leave, it was without fanfare. He merely stepped off the train moments before it departed with its august passengers.

**

Her Majesty stepped out of the inner chamber during Henry Fox’s examination. She paced nervously the short length of the drawing room, wringing her hands yet prepared to compose her features when summoned. Victoria knew that William blamed himself when she betrayed excessive dependence, and she was determined to make him proud by behaving with great dignity. Even that, she acknowledged, was motivated solely by her desire to please _him_ , but it was the best she could do. She did not often allow herself to contemplate what life might be left if she were to ever lose him, and yet on those rare occasions she had alluded to such a prospect she was met by a stricken look in those beloved green eyes.

No fool, Victoria knew what a forty-year age difference might inevitably mean, yet she could as readily expire in childbirth, or at the hand of an assassin, and it was a circumstance there was no profit in examining closely. Loving William Lamb and being loved by him in return simply _was_ , the single unalterable fact of her life. Victoria could readily imagine a life in which she had not been Queen, when she was a simple gentry woman, wife of the Prime Minister or simply the intellectual dreamer he fancied he might have been. She had contemplated what a new life would be like, had they fled to America or the East and lived anonymously. A dozen alternative lifetimes might splay out in her imagination but none would exclude her beloved Lord M from her side.

Each time she had tried, in a vain attempt to immunize herself, to picture what life she might have had without his loving presence, all she saw in her mind’s eye was a bleak featureless landscape, bathed in thick gray fog which obscured all outlines and nothing substantial remained. Purgatory as the Papists called it, perhaps, or simply a nothingness which existed outside the realm of corporeal existence. No, there would have been no life at all without Lord M.

He insisted that their love must strengthen, not weaken her, and prepare her for the inevitable, and that was the sole matter in which she openly defied him. She would have her country, her crown, and their children to hold it, and she would not, she hoped, succumb to the ultimate despair. Victoria knew that, no matter how shattered her heart, seeing William in their son would be some small consolation; preserving him in memory for the daughter in whose heart he held center place, those things would enable her to find the strength to go on. But there would be no other man to take his place. That door would remain firmly closed. He must fill her now, complete her with his essence, his body and his wonderful mind and his spirit, so she could go on until they were together again.

Victoria broke out of her reverie when the door to Melbourne’s bedchamber opened and she was invited back inside.

“My dear Victoria, please don’t scowl so. You will frighten Henry and as he intends to re-suture my thigh I prefer his hands are steady.” Victoria’s mien changed at once upon hearing his teasing, light-hearted tone, and her relief was palpable.

“William has told me a bit of his adventure on the high seas. I take it you won’t be taking to the water again anytime soon, ma’am?” Henry Fox, son of Melbourne’s old friend Lord Holland, had succeeded to the title but still treated a favored few patients.

Victoria looked to each man in turn for permission before seating herself beside her husband on the settee. She glanced at his hand, laid palm up on the cushion, and slipped her own within his grasp. When his fingers curled around hers she felt the tension inside her loosen.

“I still do not know what happened,” she said softly, glancing at Melbourne to see whether the subject caused him distress. His expression remained genial and untroubled and his green eyes were so filled with love she felt a lump grow in her throat.

“A squall came up without warning, the boat tipped over and then it righted itself. Our engine was flooded so Trafalgar towed us to shore. That’s about the extent of it, ma’am. The rest…mere details.”

“Were you in any real danger?” Victoria watched him closely, knowing William would protect her if he could but would not lie outright. He shrugged, still smiling gently.

“I’m afraid I’m not seaman enough to tell the difference. You’d have to ask someone who is. I’m alive and here with you and that’s all that matters to me.” Melbourne lifted her hand to his lips, heedless of the physician still waiting quietly, poised to begin.

Victoria sat quietly, eyes averted, when Henry commenced snipping away coarse black thread and restitching the wound. Her hand in William’s detected no reaction at all. He merely stroked the back of her fingers with his thumb.

**

Cameron found no shortage of informants dockside. Like any men who had faced a traumatic experience, the sailors lately on board the _Victoria and Albert_ as well as the two tenders and _Trafalgar_ were eager to describe what they’d seen and experienced. No sailor himself, Cameron could get the gist of it all, and plied them with good Irish whiskey to keep them talking. Seemingly no one in charge had anticipated a storm of such severity to blow up on a clear June day. The red sky at sunrise had been a harbinger for those experienced seamen not formally educated in the new science of marine navigation, but one which was presumably not taken into account by the Academy-trained captains.

Those men who had been granted a few hours’ leave while new bearings were pressed heard of a typhoon to the south Atlantic from sailors who had successfully outrun the storm front. These men told of monster rogue waves a hundred feet tall bearing down on them, but _that_ was not even a cautionary tale for who sailed Channel waters. Everyone knew the Channel was neither deep enough nor open enough for such monsters to grow. Speed, intensity and _fetch_ – a young subaltern painstakingly explained the term – dictated the size of storm surges. _Fetch_ especially was the limiting factor, and for that the Channel was too narrow and confined a space to give waves the running start needed to grow to truly historic heights.

What made this storm an anomaly, as Cameron understood it, was winds which came from the south, rather than west. Easterly winds would indeed have provided the limiting restraint of _fetch_ in a confined area just over twenty nautical miles wide, but no such factor was at play when the sudden squall came from the south, across a broad, almost limitless expanse of open ocean. Complacency and disbelief, an unwillingness to think beyond what was _assumed_ likely, even possible, was one preliminary conclusion Cameron underlined heavily in his own mind

A second factor – and by then, he was surrounded by men as eager to add their own opinions to the mix as they were to drink the liquor he was buying freely – was the strident complaints already voiced for the past twelve hours as their departure was delayed for necessary repairs. Lord Melbourne had arrived late, greeting the crew with his usual quiet courtesy, making no particular demands, but Lord Palmerston, the one who’d been waiting an entire day and night on board, had been vociferous in his demand for immediate departer.

The harbormaster who boarded to warn the captain had told of ships, larger and with more experienced crew, that had been frightened enough to make for the nearest port and wait out the weather. Men working nearby had heard the captain dismiss those warnings and send the man away.

Cameron wanted to gather as much hard intelligence as he could, but by his reckoning this would soon be a matter for some commission or other. That’s what they did, after all – appoint a _commission_ to hear endless contradictory testimony long after those in charge had a chance to get their stories straight. His own interest was more personal, on behalf of his Queen and his own curiosity.

The ship had been built with so-called watertight compartments, meant to keep it afloat if one section took on water. These had functioned as intended until the decks were overrun and then green water had leaked all around the massive sealed doors, flooding the cabins even as they trapped those inside. Water pressure prevented those doors from opening, even as the water level rose within.

Lord Melbourne had declined to go below, even after the first powerful wave slammed broadside and washed over the deck. He had been knocked down, along with Lord Palmerston, but as soon as they regained their feet they had responded to the shouts of panic from below. Palmerston shouldered the door open with brute force and Melbourne, his tranquil manner calming those around him, kept them from panicking while he guided them up the only accessible exit.

The captain had, to his credit, been doing his best to direct the force of his single engine – and the most outspoken of the men expostulated the stupidity of having only a single engine  – toward the waves, pointing his bow into them with the intention of avoiding a broadside hit. The ship veered sharply starboard at the same time they were tilted perilously onto their side by the sheer force of the hit, and a great wave – some men claimed, from the deck of Trafalgar, that the monster had to be nearly a hundred feet tall – swallowed up _Victoria and Albert_ whole. A collective moan ran through those men clustered on the rail of the frigate, certain they had watched the royal yacht go down. Just as suddenly as it had disappeared, the wave broke and the yacht popped back up like a cork, upended, swirling in a maelstrom before it righted itself as though by divine intervention.  

In response to Cameron’s questioning, they described how, while seamen aboard the royal yacht went about the business of saving their vessel, one of the passengers on board washed overboard when the vessel veered suddenly, and dangled precariously by his safety harness, slamming viciously into the side of the boat each time another wave buffeted the ship. He seemed a goner until a fellow passenger slithered under the rail and dragged him back up and in. It seemed certain they would both go down to a watery grave, until inch by painful inch both men were once more on the safe side of the rail, and collapsed on deck side by side.

The highest accolades these rough men offered were in admiration for the cool, calm, unfailingly polite and considerate manner in which His Lordship responded, never once losing his head or becoming one more nob who needed saving and tending. No one even knew he was injured until he quietly collapsed, unable to draw breath.

**

Lord Melbourne had no intention of spending the day in bed, despite his wife’s protests to the contrary, and at this he was supported by his physician.

“Ma’am, moving about – judiciously, of course – is the best preventative. That bruise will heal, although it will get uglier as it does so, but the danger of clots forming is higher when he does not move the limb. I would suggest that even at night, you move around periodically rather than lie completely still.”

Melbourne lifted a brow and looked meaningfully at his wife, with an expression so comically lecherous it made her giggle, heedless of her dignity.

The bandage compressing his ribs was as uncomfortably stiff as a corset, and when Melbourne suggested removing it to move about more freely the doctor objected.

“In that, sir, I must agree with your wife. Wear a loose shirt for the next few days, but do not, I beg of you, remove the bandages yet. Those ribs could still shift awkwardly if not held in place.” Fox waved off Melbourne’s intention to stand, and bowed to the Queen before departing.

As soon as the doctor had gone Victoria returned to her husband’s side. She knelt beside him, twining both arms around his neck and pressing her face to the curve of his neck.

“My darling…” she murmured. “Now comes the real ordeal. You must face my uncle for at least another week. Unless we can persuade him his interests lie back in Belgium.”


	9. Chapter 9

_39 South Street, London_

“You can tarry a few extra moments…you may catch up to them and none the wiser.” Victoria’s girlish giggle was muffled against her husband’s shoulder; his words likewise indistinct, for his lips nibbled the tender, ticklish skin of her neck.

“William…” she protested half-heartedly, pressing her palms against his chest as though she might push him away. Instead, she lifted those hands to the sides of his face, fingers toying with the soft curls feathering against his temples. “Feodora expects me to walk with her and the children. _William! We’re in the breakfast room!”_ This last, a whisper of weak protest.

Lord Melbourne’s eyes were tender and brimful of amusement, with something more urgent behind the dancing light. He looked down at the armful of warm, willing wife he held.

Victoria, at twenty-six, had matured into a lovely young woman. Melbourne understood that she’d never entirely lost her self-consciousness, but had only shaped it into a becoming reticence, far more attractive than the crude blustering certainty of certain other members of her family. Girlish disinhibition and the compensating stiff pomposity which had marked her novice efforts at eighteen – with others, never with him – to enact what she thought a sovereign should be, had gracefully evolved into a pleasing naturalness and effortless dignity.

He stroked her cheek admiringly. To Melbourne, Victoria would always be a splendid creature, but he understood how often she compared her appearance unfavorably to the accredited beauties who came to Court. The childish roundness of her cheeks had melted away over time and cheekbones emerged, blending with her elegant jawline to give her a striking profile.

Melbourne knew she heeded his every word – no sooner did he express the most flippant opinion than she’d adopted it entirely. He was not fool enough to excessively admire other females, knowing how fiercely jealous his young wife became, and chose to compliment only those attributes in others she could readily adopt. None of her family were known for their taste – the effort George Brummel expended to bring the Prince Regent up to snuff was proof of that – so what guidance he’d offered, Melbourne couched in terms of praise only. He’d speedily noted in their earliest days, when he remarked how especially well Victoria looked in narrower skirts, complimented her shoulders or expressed a clear preference for cool blues and greens to offset a warm complexion, she was sure to appear without her hoops, in the dropped-shoulder risqué necklines which lent a swan-like beauty to her neck, and particularly hideous gowns of orange taffeta and scarlet velveteen were never seen again.

Lord Melbourne heard, whether he was meant to or not, what his own society said about the royal family they had so long despised, and it was with a great deal of quiet satisfaction that he began to hear grudging acknowledgement of her success. _Not as dowdy a little thing as we expected, Melbourne_ and, grudgingly, from female acquaintances most likely to rip another woman to shreds, _she knows how to dress and carry herself well. More of a beauty than we ever thought we’d see from that line._

Melbourne’s own class had been the most likely to laugh her to scorn, as they did her uncles before her. The Whig nobles were never provincial, never uncouth, and the Germans, as they called their royal family, were both. His people, those with whom he had gone to Eton and Cambridge, who had danced at each other’s weddings and bedded each other's wives, had, like Melbourne himself, an effortless knowledge of the world that comes only to those who, from childhood, have been accustomed to moving in a complex society. The delightful unassertive confidence possible to those who have never had cause to doubt their worth or social position, should have been Victoria’s birthright. Instead, due perhaps to the isolation of Kensington where her only regular companion a prim German spinster and her every movement, every expression of individuality criticized by the domineering John Conroy, his precious girl, this shining star, had grown up gauche, liable to be stiff and tongue-tied or unbecomingly blunt. During their long rambling discussions of every topic under the sun, Victoria gradually learned to engage in the sparkling, scintillating conversation that might ease her into her rightful place at the very pinnacle of society. Gradually, through his unforced tutelage and the mutual delight they took in each other’s company, he had the boundless satisfaction of seeing her grow from cygnet to swan.

When he looked at her now, aglow with the unmistakable patina of a happy woman, he thought that he had done nothing else in life to equal the importance of being allowed to love her.

“My darling girl…” he whispered hoarsely, tracing the line of her jaw with his finger. Then, collecting himself, he sighed dramatically for effect. “All right then. You wound me but I will accept my rebuff.”

Victoria’s blue eyes sparkled with pleasure at his teasing, and she swayed gently against him.

“Oh, my love…four more days they will be with us. Then we can escape to Brocket for a long weekend.”

Victoria raised her eyes to her husband’s handsome face, so he saw the adoration she felt. His expression was so gentle, so serene, despite the frustration of the moment – the frustration of the past week, she amended.

Her relatives seemed to take up so much _space_ , all of them entitled, overbearing, arrogant and apparently determined to offend him at every turn. She had now spent eight adult years growing increasingly more familiar with the society over which she reigned, and she more fully understood the barely-concealed scorn of aristocratic English families for her German roots. Compared to these polished sophisticates who knew exactly how to enjoy life and lend it an effervescence utterly lacking in the dull Hanoverians and their Coburg cousins, Victoria saw that side of her heritage for what it was. Leopold’s overbearing manner, his open disdain for Viscount Melbourne, was infuriating not only for its own sake – and of course any loyal wife would feel likewise – but because it was so _ridiculous_ , and exacerbated her own insecurity to be constantly reminded that she sprung, at least in part, from these bovine foreigners.

Even Lord M, who knew her to her very soul, didn’t entirely grasp how _inferior_ she felt amidst his people, those effortlessly elegant Whigs amongst whom he was so entirely at home. Or how essentially _inadequate_ she felt when she compared herself to the smart, witty, worldly women of his acquaintance.

“Never mind, sweetheart. I tease you only. Go now, take your bonnet for the sun and catch up to your sister’s brood before our two are overwhelmed.”

“And you? What will you do today? I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of being confined here.”

“I am going into town. FitzClarence is back and I want to catch him if I can. He deserves credit for keeping us safe, yet I suspect he’s had his fair share of criticism by those who weren’t there.” Lord Adolphus FitzClarence, captain of the _Victoria and Albert_.

“You will not ride,” Victoria said hopefully. “You must not jostle your leg or your ribs yet.”

Melbourne briefly debated whether he might successfully insist on his ability to mount and dismount a horse, before conceding privately that he still had healing to do.

“Yes, Mrs. Melbourne. No need to nag. I will order up a barouche and ride through the park like a Bond Street beau.”

“Kiss me first?” She turned her face up expectantly. Melbourne took her chin in his hand and laid his lips over her own, nibbling gently, flicking just the tip of his tongue against hers, and was rewarded by a melting sensation as she leaned into him.

Watching her slight figure retreat in the distance, Melbourne had no desire to step away from the window until she was out of sight.

A good part of every day was spent in proximity to her innumerable relatives. Melbourne found them at worst a vaguely irritating disruption to their daily routine, an obstructive presence he could far more readily tolerate without upset than Victoria. It troubled him, that he was the cause of a rupture in the affection she’d formerly borne for the overbearing uncle and even her half-sister. Victoria was prickly and defensive, reacting to every perceived slight directed toward him. And there were many – Leopold’s animosity ran far deeper than mere doting uncle or even frustrated influence broker, a fact which aroused Melbourne’s curiosity but little more. He tried and failed to persuade Victoria that their opinion of him mattered not at all, so long as it didn’t sway her own. Much as he treasured her loyalty, all he could do was show Victoria by example that the barbs bothered him no more than her half-sister’s pitying sighs.

His various aches and pains had receded to a tolerable level in the week since he’d taken a battering when the _Victoria and Albert_ capsized. As little as his male vanity tolerated any show of weakness, Melbourne was not an overly proud man and he especially relished the tenderness his wife showered him with. _It feels damned good to be tended to_ , he acknowledged. At night, when he came to her bed, Victoria would wind herself around him with painstaking care and then soothe him with feather-light strokes that diverted any thought of the still-troublesome ribs, the damaged muscle in his leg. Her touch inevitably led to other things, accomplished with no little creativity to spare his battered limbs, but before and after, the simple consolation of her soft hands caressing him in long loving strokes made him want to purr with pleasure. He’d once been fond of claiming he’d rather have men around him than women when he was ill, unable to bear the fussing and overzealous attention. Remembering his early bravado, Melbourne could only excuse it as the opinion of one ignorant of what bliss such attention could be.

He had told her little more of the mishap at sea, unwilling to fuel her fears. It twisted his heart almost painfully when she clung to him, shuddering at the thought she might have lost him, telling him how much she needed him. _No, my darling, I need you more than you need me, if only you knew it_ , Melbourne thought each time he looked into her blue eyes, shining with adoration. That this splendid creature could look at him so, was the miracle upon which his life depended. He knew that without him she would go on to become a great Queen, with a long life ahead of her. He knew that, without her, he could not go on at all.

**

William Lamb rode most compliantly in a barouche to the center of London, and stopped outside a lodging at 39 South Street. That address had previously been his London residence, but for the past two years had been occupied instead by the offices of the secret protection-and-intelligence squad formed after Prince Albert’s assassination.

Baron William Cameron, elder son of an impoverished Irish nobleman, had inherited his title and little else save a crumbling seventeenth century fortress surrounded by bog. With the assistance of his mother’s income, he’d bought colors at eighteen and joined the 40th Regiment of Foot, stationed across India, first at Belgaum, then Pune. He’d risen to the rank of Captain on merit alone, fought and caroused his way across the Indian subcontinent, and taken part in the capture of Karachi. In ’42 he marched his men to Kandahar, returned home on leave to recover from wounds which refused to heal in the field and had only just returned in time to take part in the Battle of Kabul. It was his last. His time in London had unalterably changed him in ways nothing he saw in the field of battle could. His men good-naturedly kidded him, as they did all those who were homebound, that there must be a woman waiting for him. And there was, one he could never have and yet was compelled to serve. So many men had charged into battle, had fought and died, avowedly for _The Queen_. For Billy Cameron, the woman whose face was on a thousand medallions worn around sweat-stained necks, held in pockets close to the heart as lucky charms, had become real and he knew he’d never forget her.

When Melbourne stepped inside the familiar building he was shocked at its appearance. He’d lived there as a bachelor, had never entertained – preferring Holland House, Storey’s Gate and ultimately the palace – and had let the place fall into disrepair. Now housing a company of former military men under the command of a boisterous Irishman, every surface gleamed and it had the quiet, humming energy of a gentlemen’s club.

Melbourne looked about him, thinking that in this, as in every other way, Billy Cameron never failed to surprise.

Cameron was seated behind what had once been the Prime Minister’s desk, in his library. He rose when he saw he had a visitor, as though he’d been expecting one. Melbourne nodded cordially and hesitated in the doorway, paying him the courtesy of awaiting an invitation to enter.

Billy Cameron, tall, broad-shouldered, looking closer to twenty than the thirty-four years Melbourne knew him to be, still wore his hair past shoulder length, an unkempt mop devoid of affectation. Melbourne knew him to be cut of a different mold than the society he himself kept, but discounted neither his abilities nor his considerable affect on the females who fluttered about him. His manner was deceptively guileless, lazy, insolent, with a perpetual smirk as though he considered social niceties far beneath contempt.

“Sir,” Cameron walked around the desk which had once been Melbourne’s. “Please, come in, be seated. How’s the leg?”

Melbourne shrugged dismissively. “Nothing much to speak of. How’s your man Garrett? I’ve wanted to inquire – “

“He’s alive. My brother’s overseeing his care, but – he’s alive, thanks to you. He told me all about it.”

Melbourne took a chair and stretched out his legs, motioning for the man towering above him to do likewise.

“We’ll pension him, of course – settle a sum on him so he never has to worry about anything again. Whatever he wants to be comfortable. Does he have a family?”

“No. A sister somewhere up north I think, but he says little about it. Were you already banged up when you went under the rail after him? Yet you hung on and drew him back in. Anyway…good piece of work. It’s what we’d expect in the field but not from someone –“

“Not from someone like me? A politician? A Whig? A - what?” Melbourne laughed, genuinely amused at a rare sign of discomfiture in the other man. He didn’t particularly like the man, but he valued him at his true worth, which was considerable. And because he knew his dislike to be unreasonable, he strove to treat him with excess civility. Still, it felt good to see him at a disadvantage. As soon as he had the thought Melbourne knew it to be unworthy, and smiled warmly to compensate for his own ambivalence.

“Yes, sir – something like that.” Rather than resume his seat behind the desk, Cameron lowered himself to perch on the edge. “Not just Garrett. The first mate, the seamen on board the yacht and those others on Trafalgar and the tenders, all tell the same story. You kept your head, you stayed calm and kept everyone around you calm. Went under when the boat flipped and no sooner than it came up right you went right back to securing everyone else. And then – hung over the edge and risked your own life to pull my man back from what would have been a miserable death, dragged through the water until he tore apart, not even the mercy of quick drowning.”

Melbourne shifted uncomfortably in his chair, facing his own turn to feel awkward and ill at ease. He waved a hand dismissively. “They mistake me for Lord Palmerston perhaps. He broke down the door to free those inside. He hung onto me or I would have been over the side as soon as I grabbed hold of Garrett. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to have a plan beyond that.” He paused, and looked at Cameron suspiciously. “Why were you discussing me at all?”

“Just part of understanding what happened. The other details – whether the yacht was seaworthy or if there was some fundamental flaw in design; if the captain made any errors in judgment – those will be for someone with experience in seamanship to review. I just…I guess once I start asking questions I find it hard to stop. You’re an interesting man, Lord Melbourne. Not at all what you appear.”

“Neither are you, Lord Cameron,” Melbourne responded drily. “And I’d appreciate it, if whatever you think you know stays between us. Her Majesty doesn’t need to be troubled by a graphic description of whatever happened out there, and I find I can scarcely recall anything between leaving the docks of Calais and being towed ashore at Dover.”

“Her Majesty set me on to find out what became of you. She’s waiting to hear back, and she’s not a patient sort. Very demanding woman, hard to say no to.”

Melbourne felt a surge of annoyance flare, at the man’s familiar tone as much as the insinuation he wasn’t sure he heard. He permitted a glimpse of the steely determination which lay just under his genial expression, fixing his eyes on the other man.

“Nevertheless, you report to me, not Her Majesty. And I’d appreciate it if you kept it that way.”

“Why?” Cameron rose and walked around the desk, eyeing Melbourne curiously. “Your brother-in-law isn’t going to stay quiet. He’ll make himself the center of whatever tale he tells.”

“All the better. I prefer not to be discussed at all.” Melbourne looked at Cameron coolly, and felt that irritation rise a notch higher when that man laughed so hard his shoulders shook.

“You _are_ something. No wonder she –“ he stopped short. “Never mind. This started off with me thanking you on behalf of Garrett. And telling you truthfully, you’re quite a bit more impressive than any man I’ve met not wearing a uniform. Let’s end it there.” Cameron put out his hand and after a pause, Melbourne accepted it.

“Actually, there’s something else I came to see you about.”

Melbourne had methodically written out everything he remembered from his conversation with Rothschild, not trusting to memory alone, and had sent those pages by diplomatic pouch with the royal courier, addressed to himself at Windsor Castle. He intended to tell no one the whole, but recognized that to validate what he’d been told and fill in the blanks, he needed to dispense piecemeal certain matters.

Cameron, slouching in his chair with that absurd mop of hair hanging over his eyes, listened until he finished. The few follow-up questions he asked were good ones, and reassured Melbourne that he grasped the subtleties. When he rose to leave he extended his hand and Cameron took it, shaking firmly.

“Tell her what happened, or let me tell her. It’ll do you no harm to let her see you as a hero. Women like that kind of thing,” Cameron drawled, his brogue coming and going seemingly according to his mood and the image he wished to project.

Melbourne smirked, his expression not unkind. “Thank you for your advice, but I have no need of it. Victoria knows who I am.”

“Does she? Does she indeed?” Cameron leaned back and crossed his arms, stretching out long booted legs. Melbourne reflected that even when he was thirty years younger he’d never projected such an air of raw physicality. He wondered, not for the first time, whether he made a mistake in not keeping this man far, far away. He thought not, but had been wrong before, in similar circumstances.

After his time at 39 South Street, Melbourne sorely wanted a drink and gave only brief thought to whether it was too early to appear at his club. _Nothing sadder than those idle fellows with nothing better to do than hold up a table at Brooks_. Shrugging off the notion, he directed his driver to St. James Street, in search of FitzClarence. He bore the man no malice, and meant what he said when he’d told Cameron and Victoria both that the mishap had been unavoidable. But he wanted the damn boat destroyed all the same, before Victoria could ever step on board. It seemed like a cursed thing. The next one would be christened _Victoria._

**

The family was assembled in the Queen’s private drawing room, already dressed for dinner, when Melbourne strolled in. He greeted the other ladies present with civility and bowed to the King of the Belgians, murmuring an indistinct greeting while bestowing on that gentleman a vague smile. Then he bowed low to the Queen and kissed her hand.

“So formal, Lord Melbourne. Always the Minister first and a husband second? It must be difficult to make the adjustment.” Leopold observed, with his usual air of vaguely sneering disdain.

“I don’t find it difficult or necessary,” Melbourne replied cryptically, still smiling, although with perhaps a touch of amusement. He had kept hold of Victoria’s hand, running his thumb idly over her palm. He was touched when she moved closer, as though to align herself visibly with her husband.

“I apologize if I’ve kept you all waiting,” he drawled, looking not at all sorry. “If you will excuse me, I will dress for dinner. Pray, continue to entertain the ladies until I return, Your Majesty.” Melbourne looked down at Victoria. “Ma’am, will you accompany me? I have a matter of some urgency I must address.”

Victoria’s cheeks pinked, and she averted her eyes. Melbourne permitted a small smile to dance about his lips, only for her.

As soon as they’d entered his apartment he spun her about and drew her into a close embrace.

“I’ve missed you, Lord M. It’s been such a long day,” she moaned, tickling his throat with her warm breath.

“I’ve been gone all of four hours, ma’am,” he said laughing, the sound muffled by her mouth against his.


	10. Chapter 10

_Brocket Hall_

Lord Melbourne had never been an early riser. In the past few years he’d painfully accustomed himself to rising long before he would have preferred, when in the past it was no remarkable thing to find him still asleep at noon, abed at two and shaving at four, all while visitors alternately amused him with their gossip, clamored for attention to some matter or other, and even pressed their petitions upon him.

When their nocturnal activities were not sanctioned, he would slip out of her bed before dawn and retreat to his own, free to sleep away the god-awful bright hours of early morning before emerging sometime after midday.

The many blessings of holy matrimony did not include autonomy in such matters, and of all the many ways in which he found his independence constrained, perhaps the most painful was his wife’s expectation he face whatever dozens happened to be in residence on any given day over breakfast. Neither the unconscionably early hour nor the public nature of a meal nature surely intended be consumed in one’s night clothes had grown easier to face in the – he counted mentally – almost five years he had spent waking in one palace or another.

That the inevitable company would today include her innumerable aunts, uncles and cousins of one stripe or another only made the ordeal worse, but even on those mornings when the assembly only included a bevy of pretty young maids of honor and those ladies-in-waiting who were his special friends – Charlotte Canning, Emma Portman and his own niece Fanny Jocelyn, whom he found quite tolerable – it was simply more than flesh and blood could bear. While Victoria exerted herself to minimize the more arduous requirements of protocol for his sake, she seemed to find the constant population _gemütlich_ and had little conception of that another way of life was possible. Her notion of real simplicity and privacy, darling girl, was those weekend getaways to Brocket with only two or three ladies-in-waiting, an equerry, her mother and _her_ ladies-in-waiting, and one or both governesses. Of those, Baroness Lehzen, for all her sourness, was at least self-effacing; Lady Lyttleton was a garrulous woman who put herself forward at every opportunity.

Melbourne was halfway amused at his own inner monologue, running over the grievances he could never express. Loving Victoria was his life, his joy and delight, of course – but marriage, ah, that was a different story.

From the loud hum of voices and clinking of crockery, Melbourne knew that another tortuous breakfast was underway and he made the instant decision to slip out of a side entrance, in hopes of reaching the stable yard to make his getaway unhindered.

The summer had been a wet one and the nursery party must have taken advantage of a brief clearing of the skies to exercise the pack of children under their supervision.

What looked to be a dozen or more children – _surely it can’t be that many,_ he thought, aghast – were organized into a game on the wet grass. He paused to watch his own son and daughter, unused to the sight of them surrounded by others of their kind and degree. The German cousins – Leopold’s four and Feodora’s five – were seemingly engaged in some semblance of cricket. Remembering his own Eton days, Melbourne leaned on a fencepost to see what Liam would do with the bat when his turn came up.

His Royal Highness Prince William of Wales was nearly five, and a sweet, thoughtful boy who reminded Melbourne forcibly of himself, or the self he might have been if he had not the advantage of a pack of brothers – Pen nine years older, and the two rascally younger ones – and a tomboyish little devil of a sister. His own son was surrounded by adults who indulged him and had little reason to resort to discipline. 

While he watched, one of the teenaged boys – Feodora’s eldest? – made as if to hand Liam the cricket bat, had Princess Elizabeth not shoved her way forward to wrestle it way for herself. Melbourne grinned at his daughter’s pugnacity. She caught sight of her father watching and immediately shouted out. Liam looked over his shoulder and brightened considerably when he saw Melbourne, one of the boys said something and little Lily – the Princess Royal – erupted in fury, using the bat as a weapon and, when that was taken away, head-butting one boy so his nose erupted in a bloody geyser, kicking out at a second and biting any who came near. Almost instantly, the other children joined the fray.

The older children hooted and cheered on the brawling little ones, governesses shrieked and added to the furor by attempting to capture and subdue their own charges while Melbourne strode up and neatly snatched up his tiny daughter.

**

“In 1840 James was in Brussels to discuss the terms of yet another loan. Belgium raised five major loans from the Rothschilds between 1830 and 1844, with a value of close to 300 million francs. In 1842 we have a clear direction from James to Lionel, that he should go to Windsor to see the King of the Belgians. Windsor! His close ties to Her Majesty and his presumed influence over the affairs of this country are the man’s chief collateral. This was not about profit alone; anyone who thinks that is as big an ass as Baron Rothschild considers Leopold. What they wanted and what they achieved is monopoly; in effect, as much as they control substantial portions of the economies of most Western European nations, they themselves concede they _own_ Belgium. By 1844 the Rothschild monopoly on Belgian public finance was complete. What saved us was the income tax, pure and simple. England was not susceptible in the same way Leopold is, or to a lesser extent Louis-Philippe.”

“Lyndhurst, you grievously misjudge Her Majesty. While it is true that during the unhappy years of her minority the King of the Belgians acted in some role as father and certainly he attempted to advise, once she attained her majority she was entirely sensible to the impropriety of discussing the affairs of this government with him. I happen to know she told him that quite firmly, not once but many times.”

“And yet we’re meeting here, two and a half hours from London, because the entire Belgian royal family is domiciled at Windsor Castle on English soil. The man owns half the income-producing property in Kent – “

“You exaggerate grievously, Bedford.”

“I was Tavistock then, and I endured one of those interminable dinners seated beside the man. Insufferable prig, as though the world didn’t know all about – “

“Gentlemen, please, we digress. Can we attend to the matters under discussion here?”

“Ah…yes, the Rothschild letters. Do you want to tell us how you came upon them, Melbourne?”

“Not at all.”

“Then do you want to tell us at least how you knew to look for them?”

“That’s far easier. I was told. And my informant told me it was highly likely they had been retained in the original, because such communication – though it be far wiser to chuck it in the nearest grate – is rarely destroyed. Vanity? Insurance? Odds are they existed in the original hand and I need only search for them.”

“To what end? I surmise Britain is the last best ally of the person I suspect gave you this intelligence.”

The library at Brocket Hall was drenched in late afternoon sunshine, and the sounds and smells of a glorious June day in the Hertfordshire countryside filled the nostrils of the men assembled therein.

Several current and former Privy Council members, carefully selected to join this gathering by their host, were seated together oblivious of the delicious scents without. Rain had fallen intermittently, as it had for most of that very wet summer of 1845, leaving in its wake a burst of almost supernaturally brilliant green foliage. In the distance, an old stone bridge arching over the River Lea could be seen; closer to, a profusion of peonies boomed riotously, and a lilac hedge, rather newer than the established landscaping it enclosed, released heavenly odors which wafted indoors, ignored by those gentlemen engaged in serious discussion.

Most incongruously, their host, William Lamb, the Viscount Melbourne, held a child on his lap while another lay at his feet. The little girl watched every face with unblinking seriousness, while her elder brother appeared ignorant of his surroundings, engrossed as he was in a meticulous drawing of some machine or other recreated from memory.

Lord Melbourne was a contemporary of his guests, almost all of them Whigs, and every one of them with a deep understanding of geopolitics and finance. The latter topic was one long looked down upon by gentlemen of the first rank, agricultural aristocrats whose income and titles were tied to the land. Finance was considered by men of their generation as the purview of Cits, those of the Jewish race and others whose fortunes had been recently made and still stank of the City and trade.

These gentlemen, however, like Lord Melbourne, shared an understanding that such prejudices had outlived their usefulness and while the nouveau riche financiers might never be accepted privately, they held the reins of power now more surely than any minister or monarch.

Melbourne was unquestioningly accepted as one of the closed fraternity of boys grown to men in the great houses which dotted the landscape throughout England in the late 18th century, younger sons who had gone into politics and found themselves guiding the destiny of a nation almost by accident. Some, like Melbourne, had moved from one House to the other upon accession to hereditary titles while others would remain in the Commons and devote their considerable acumen toward a selfless service of country which would have been laughed to scorn, if it were spoken aloud. Rollicking cynicism was the order of the day, yet underneath it, these men and others like them were the vanguard of defense against a too-rapid change which threatened to destroy the society in which they’d grown up.

“Papa, I’m hungry,” Princess Elizabeth moaned in creditable imitation of one soon to expire for lack of nourishment. Lord Melbourne turned his full attention to the small creature imperiously turning his face to hers with one chubby hand under his chin.

“Well, my lady, we keep country hours here but even so, we won’t dine for hours. Shall we go to the kitchen and see what Cook might have for tea?” The little princess, a minute elfin thing just short of three years, nodded emphatically in embrace of her father’s suggestion and struggled to get down from his lap. Instead, Lord Melbourne rose still carrying her and extended a hand to his son. “Liam, shall we go and find you and your sister sustenance?” He prodded gently, arousing the boy from his rapt focus on whatever construction he was designing on paper.

When Melbourne had excused himself with the promise of likewise ordering refreshment for his guests, the gentlemen left behind avoided exchanging the speaking glances they were inclined towards. All of them, of course, had produced the heirs required of their name, and in most cases had the satisfaction of knowing that their own grown children had full nurseries, but none of them had ever shown more than a cursory interest in their own small offspring.

Melbourne had come to fatherhood, or stepfatherhood, as the polite fiction had it, late in life. His own troubled son could have been no creditable heir and most viewed it as a blessing when that young man had expired just short of his thirtieth birthday. Not a one of those present, nor most of those in the uppermost echelons of society, paid more than lip service to the notion that these two children were the product of Her Majesty’s short-lived marriage to His Royal Highness Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. Why, the boy was the image of Melbourne at that same age in the once-prominent Reynolds portrait now kept out of sight to prevent just this sort of speculation. The Princess Royal was of course a miniaturization of Her Majesty but likewise, there could be little doubt regarding her paternity. It mattered little to anyone of any consequence. The heir to the throne was legitimately born during a dynastic marriage and if there was that much less German blood wearing an English crown, so much the better, by consensus.

But the unseemliness of Melbourne’s rapt attention to the minutiae of parenting – that was the thing which made it all so awkward. _Ah well,_ Granville observed. _Melbourne was ever an eccentric and compared to some of the things he’d done (blowing a feather around the table during depositions! Sleeping through most Council meetings! Greeting a French trade delegation in his nightshirt and proceeding to bathe during their audience!) playing nursemaid to the Queen’s offspring was just one more story to tell of William Lamb._

While Lord Melbourne superintended the prompt provision of bread and jam and fresh milk and berries he thought with some concern of his last conversation with Victoria. The moment had been tense, and had not ended well for either of them.

**

She’d swept in, Baroness Lehzen in tow, whilst he had Lily and Liam hidden away in his own apartments. “Hidden away,” was how Victoria had put it, smiling as though in jest, but with a certain _tone_ in her voice which told him she was less than amused. Lily – the Princess Elizabeth – brooked no interference between herself and her father and was no respecter of person or privilege. She’d reacted with the expected outrage when seeing these ultimate authorities sweep into _Papa’s_ private chamber, the safest space in her world.

Melbourne knew that of course Victoria loved her children, and demonstrated a great deal of pride when they were presented by their governesses to recite that week’s lesson. She scrupulously paid daily visits to the nursery after the children were settled for bed and rarely failed to hear their prayers. He also knew – of course he did; he knew her perhaps better than she knew herself – that she was not a naturally demonstrative person with any but himself, and struggled to conceal her hurt and resentment that the children, particularly the little princess, made such a show of favoritism towards their father. Melbourne suspected her resentment ran both ways, in that she had neither experience in receiving a father’s love and attention, or in sharing his own with another, even her own daughter. He exerted himself to guide the children in tempering their natural awe of the Queen with tender affection due their mother. Liam, perhaps because he was older, or perhaps because he was a far less challenging child than his sister, had more success in that regard.

Nonetheless, Melbourne’s compassionate understanding faded when Victoria directed the children be taken back to the nursery. To avoid an unpleasant scene in front of the servants he relinquished his daughter to the waiting maid and admonished her in a whisper to be a good, sweet girl; but he was not pleased with his wife’s autocratic show of force.

Victoria had looked at his wrinkled neckcloth, used so recently by the princess as a handkerchief to dry her tears and blow her nose, and his soiled shirt-front, marred by grass, mud and blood stains, and teased him with rather more of an edge to her voice than perhaps even she knew.

“William, you really must let Lady Sarah and Lehzen handle the children. It is not dignified for you to involve yourself in childish squabbles. What would Uncle Leopold think? Or even Feodora’s husband? I _will_ have them respect you.”

Melbourne looked at his wife with surprise, both at the tone and her words. He frowned before making a conscious effort to compose his features in a mild expression.

“Ma’am, I doubt Leopold will respect me more or less depending on the degree to which I show interest in _my_ children,” he’d retorted, speaking more gently than inclination dictated. She nevertheless detected his displeasure, something she rarely saw.

Victoria relented at once, as he knew she would, softening her own expression and swaying toward him flirtatiously. She tugged loose his cravat and began unfastening his cuffs for him and despite his lingering ire, Melbourne felt himself relax and respond to the touch of her cool soft fingers.

“I would rather stay here with you but Sir Robert is expected, and is bringing the Opposition Leader with him. Will you join us?”

“Johnny Russell? That’s an odd combination for one audience. What will they speak about?” Melbourne tugged off his close-fitting jacket and untucked his shirt, in preparation for discarding it.

“It is not what they will speak about, it’s what I wish to address. I do want them to find a means of agreeing on at least Sir Robert’s reservations about allowing the trade tariffs to stand for another session. Sir Robert feels strongly that we must rescind them to prevent a bad situation from becoming worse in the north. I quite agree with him.”

“An agreement between Russell and Peel will do no good, even if you should manage to achieve your goal. Peel’s party will never stand for such a thing and frankly, I don’t blame them. It’s a damned dishonest thing, to turn on one’s friends and the Party which has backed him through thick and thin, only for a principle.”

“I support Sir Robert in this, and if those dreadful Tories can’t see what is right, I must make them – with his help of course. I’ve appealed to Wellington and Richmond to support Peel whatever he might decide.”

“You can’t expect them to take this lying down – not if Peel turns his back on his friends. Why would they back him in such a play?”

“They must. Oh, William, I do not want another change in government. Everything has been so settled and safe. I can’t believe I ever misjudged Sir Robert so badly. He has been a true friend to us.” Melbourne saw with some amusement the moment Victoria realized how her words might be construed. “Of course, if you had been able to continue as First Lord I would never have wanted anyone else in the role.”

He smirked and chucked her under her chin playfully. “I understand your meaning and took no offense. I find I quite like being…er, retired…and this new role comes with some charming prerequisites.” Victoria stretched on her tiptoes to reach him and her lips landed softly at the corner of his mouth.

“So, will you join us?” She prodded.

“No, I think not, ma’am. I do not agree with the notion of Peel reversing himself and coming out in support. If that’s truly his belief, then he should resign and let the liberals form a government. Of course, my opinion is my own only and not for public consumption, but I would like to reserve the right to hold it all the same. Moreover….” Melbourne hesitated, fairly certain how his next words would be received, although in hindsight even he had been taken aback by the strength of Victoria’s response. “I think I will ride to Brocket early, and take the children with me. You may join us when your guests depart.”

Victoria had stiffened instantly, and he saw the anticipated hurt in her eyes. Melbourne knew she didn’t respond well to any suggestion they be physically apart, and it would be particularly onerous that she would be left to entertain her relatives until the end of the week. He even understood how quickly hurt morphed into anger in Victoria. What he had not foreseen was the manner in which she would lash out, or her liberal use of the singular possessive pronoun to press her point. _My children can’t travel without me. Who will care for my children if I am not there?_ Melbourne particularly protested her unthinking assumption that they would be uncared for, neglected, even at risk of physical harm outside the confines of the palace, this from a mother who spent at most an hour a day with them and always in the company of servants and staff.

Melbourne did not wish to recall the sharp words which were exchanged on both sides, nor did he relish the memory of how instantly and completely she had relented when he’d turned away coldly, not wanting to continue an argument both would regret. Victoria adored him, he knew, and that adoration made her particularly susceptible to any hint of withdrawal, no matter how temporary. It was, he knew from the vantage of greater maturity and experience, the primary reason why he found himself unable to voice the least dissatisfaction with any aspect of their life. When he attempted to do so, her capitulation was immediate and awash in frantic desperation, lest the entire foundation of their relationship be cracked to the core. That always left in its wake a resentment on both their parts, each feeling the other had used unfair advantage to achieve victory. He had tried on innumerable occasions to reassure her that disagreement did not mean any threat to their bond, with little success. As little as Melbourne himself relished conflict, he sometimes grew frustrated at her inability to trust that their love would survive the inevitable small disputes which arose as a natural condition of the married state.

True to form, when Melbourne declined to engage in further debate and met her anger with silence Victoria had flung herself at him with effusive apologies and excessive contrition. She’d assured him that _of course_ she didn’t mean he could not take the children to Brocket Hall, she’d only meant to advise against it for his _own_ peace of mind. She offered to instantly send the European royalty packing and accompany him with her household. She clung to him, stroking his arm, coquettishly using eyes and hands and lips when he allowed it to urge some token of his affection.

What she didn’t do was concede that he had any _right_ to the company of his own children regardless of the Queen’s wish. Still he relented, unable to remain detached in the face of her distress, taking her in his arms to soothe her much the same as he’d done with their small daughter not long before.

Melbourne had asked that the children’s things be packed and chosen only the shyest, most retiring nursery maid to accompany them. Neither Baroness Lehzen nor Lady Lyttleton challenged him, but he noted the difference in their demeanor. While the stern German Baroness avoided his eyes, looking troubled and regretful, Lady Sarah seemed positively zestful at what she sensed to be trouble between Melbourne and the Queen. He knew with certainty she would soon be recounting all in a letter to her daughter.

When the small group was already waiting in a carriage below, Melbourne had returned to the Queen’s office, desirous of restoring the peace between them. Victoria appeared surprised that he intended to carry on with his plans, but was inhibited enough by the presence of her ministers to only extend her hand coolly.

“You’ll join us Sunday, ma’am? As soon as your guests have gone?” She only inclined her head, showing him the vaguest, most bland of smiles, a mere tightening of her lips. “I will miss you,” he added hopefully.

When she said nothing in return Melbourne sighed, unable to reconcile her remote dignity – the face she showed others – with his precious girl, who had only the night before slept with her limbs tangled in his. He bowed formally as she seemed to expect and lifted her hand to his lips in the _pro forma_ gesture, then cupped her face in both of his palms and tenderly kissed it. Receiving no response at all, he quirked his eyebrow in sardonic acknowledgement and stroked her cheek with his thumb before backing out of the room.

Riding alongside the carriage transporting his children and their nurse, Melbourne resolutely attempted to focus his thoughts on the meeting he would have with those friends he had summoned to the Hall in lieu of their previous plan to dine at the Reform Club. He had no doubt they would make the drive, in anticipation of reviewing the purloined financiers’ documents whose existence he had only alluded to. He rebuked himself for being distracted by thoughts of his wife and the unsettling memory of discord between them. As foolish as it was to concede in a man of his years, Melbourne found himself as much or more in need of perfect amity between them as she herself was, and for far better reason. He consoled himself by imagining the sweetness of the reunion they would have in a few short days. But first, he thought, he must make it through the nights.


	11. Chapter 11

“Disraeli bought shares in Nord, only a few hundred, but he was recently given more by Lionel Rothschild’s branch of the family.”

“Good God, Constantine, if we’re going to look askance at every man who owns a few paltry shares. Your old friend Stockmar still hold shares he bought supposedly on behalf of Prince Albert. Those would default to Her Majesty’s personal estate, in trust for her- for the Prince’s heirs.” Lord Normanby accepted his rebuke with equanimity.

“I don’t pretend to believe that any man who owes the banks money is a scoundrel,” Melbourne said easily, his voice reassuring. “Or reaps a just reward from his investments.”

“Good thing, for I've received investment advice from James while I was stationed in Vienna. You might well have letters of mine in there, William. Let's all agree that what we learn will be held in complete confidence between those of us here. You know Harrison and Arbuthnot were in Treasury when they borrowed large sums with little security save the information they could pass along?” Fred spoke reasonably, and all present nodded their agreement with his words.

“It’s the effort Nathan put into cultivating Leopold which is striking. The Rothschilds took the death of Princess Charlotte hard, grieving as though they lost one of their own.” Constantine Phipps, 1st Marquess of Normanby, waved high a letter he was particularly attached to, of the entire box of correspondence which Lord Melbourne’s mysterious agent had delivered for their review.

“’We are unable to write you fully today,’ writes Salomon to Nathan, ‘because of the heartbreak caused by that disaster, the death of Princess Charlotte. We lost our heads…’ That isn’t the language of one banker to another on the loss of a woman not related to either one of them. What they mourned for a time, clearly, was the loss of the man they owned outright and thought to place on the British throne. Any other bank might have been tempted to end Leopold’s privileged status and the blank check he had with them, but Saloman urged Nathan to do otherwise. It was a well-thought-out strategy. When the Duke of Kent produced a daughter – Her Majesty – Nathan immediately offered his services. Even the Prince of Leiningen has benefited from their designs on the English throne. There was a loan without surety made to him for 400,000 guldens and no mention of repayment.”

Melbourne looked from one to the other of his colleagues, assessing their comprehension of the scope and nature of their discussion. It was he who had summoned them all the way to Brocket, sending messengers to each the afternoon before, apprising them of his intention to move the location of their meeting from the Reform Club to his country house. Present were some of his closest friends, Lansdowne, Uxbridge, Normanby and a few others, as well as his brother Fred. Noticeably absent was their brother-in-law Henry Temple. Not, Melbourne was anxious to assure Fred, because of any doubt as to his integrity or loyalty, merely a strong suspicion that the gregarious, headstrong Palmerston was constitutionally unable to play any cards close to the vest. The last thing Melbourne wanted was a breath of scandal.

**

He had arrived at Brocket Hall the evening before, less relieved than he thought he’d be at escaping the confines of Windsor Castle. The exuberant delight of the children, at both having their father’s exclusive attention and the freedom of their beloved Brocket Hall, assuaged much of his doubt. They were pampered and exclaimed over by his mostly elderly servants, and after a detour to the kitchen, fled directly to the stables with their father in tow. There, Liam’s small pony had earlier in the year been entrusted to the Princess Royal, while he himself assumed charge of a larger, sprightlier animal. Lily threw herself with great gusto at the stocky, stalwart beast, kissing him on his velvet nose, while Liam went directly to his own horse, both children chattering like magpies all the while.

Lord Melbourne, watching their pleasure, made an effort to throw off his unanticipated gloom. Their argument had been a silly thing, but he was heartsick at the thought that Victoria still trusted in him, in _them_ , so little she must assume the worst when any disagreement arose. Her defense was always offense, temper first, then a compliance which was demanding in its very aggressive subservience, requiring him to respond in kind, and then the icy dignity she hid behind, pulling on the full might of her sovereignty like armor.

 _Silly, precious girl_ , Melbourne thought. _My heart is in your hands, if only you knew it. Must I give up every ounce of autonomy too?_ He suppressed a sigh, unwilling to allow the children a glimpse of his mood, letting himself be pulled along as they reacquainted themselves with the country home they all loved.

After an early dinner Melbourne sent the children off with their maid while he searched for some means of occupying his mind.

He found himself reluctant to resume his bachelor habits. Sitting up in the library, drinking in solitary splendor, held no appeal, and he briefly entertained the notion of riding over to pay a call on his nearest neighbors. Instead, he strolled the grounds in the late violet hush of an early summer night, wishing above all she walked at his side.

He yearned so intently that it seemed he could conjure her presence by will alone, could sense her presence beside him. If she were there she would be listening avidly to whatever he might talk about – improvements he proposed to the land, perhaps some vexing problem she’d brought with her from London although mostly, those were left behind in the peace of Brocket Hall; some obscure philosophical precept which he barely understood and she not at all, yet talking to Victoria helped clarify his thoughts like nothing else could. Reminiscences from his childhood and earlier life, for there was nothing about him which failed to interest her, and little he could not share. Even Caro, and the circumstances of their life together – or, especially Caro because in some way Victoria was open to hearing about the woman who might have been her rival, yet for whom she felt great interest and even liking. His mother – ah, Victoria loved hearing about Lady Elizabeth, as much as Melbourne loved bringing her to life in the stories he told, of her intelligence and distinction and wit and the passionate friendship she had with all her children, especially William, her favorite.

At Brocket Hall, like no where else, Victoria shed all the internal trappings of her station and became the girl she should have been, at ease and secure in herself and with him, looser and more carefree, even her movements less restrained, less constrained by the dignity she wore like an exoskeleton. Here, now, tonight, on a balmy summer evening, the Queen of England would have been left behind at Windsor or Buckingham and Victoria would stroll by his side, holding his hand, her hair unbound, her lithe young frame uncorsetted, her feet bare perhaps.

With an effort, Melbourne threw off his pining as the affectation it surely was. She was two hours away, surrounded by family and the exigencies of Court life, and would soon come to rejoin her family. When she arrived, he resolved to greet her in the drive and swing her bodily from her carriage, swing her about until she squealed with glee as though physically shaking off any residue of their disagreement. Leopold and the rest had imposed a strain on both, and with him gone things would revert to the normal rhythm of their life together. There would be endless summer days and nights ahead. For now, he had business to do here tomorrow, and the children were asleep in their beds not far way.

Melbourne found his way to the nursery. He made himself comfortable in the big armchair there, set a brandy decanter and glass beside him on the table, and opened Plato’s _Republic_ , so well worn he could find passages by feel alone, where the pages were most creased. Within a very few minutes first one child, then another, stumbled bleary-eyed from their beds to crawl into his lap and when they grew too cramped he carried them both to one bed and lay down between them, breathing in the sweet scent of baby-soft hair until he too drifted off.

He awakened sometime after midnight, grounded by the presence of his children sleeping beside him. He rose gingerly, so as not to disturb their slumber, and lightly pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads before taking his book and brandy to his own bedchamber.

It felt peculiar to be retiring alone. In France his solitary state had been for a reason – he was firmly anchored by awareness of his purpose in travel, the tasks he’d hoped to accomplish, visits to be made, relationships to be established or solidified on behalf of queen and country, and of course letters to write, words on paper linking him to her. Melbourne considered writing to Victoria and thought better of it. She was not far away, would be with him shortly, and there was little to say that could be committed to paper anyway.

He undressed himself and got into bed, feeling an uncomfortable degree of self-awareness, no longer completely comfortable with himself alone if he’d ever truly been. Plato consoled him but little – reading his retelling of Socrates’ own elaborate paraphrasing of the transmigration of the soul seemed, tonight, to be more desperately wishful thinking than honest philosophy.

When sleep crept up it came like a thief in the night and caught him unaware. Melbourne was not conscious of drowsing, he only knew he found himself in a strange dreamscape which was somehow familiar all the same. _Or was it a dream?_ Was he instead merely in some somnolent half-state, cognizant of his surroundings yet powerless to move, so he could only watch and wait, resigned, understanding he’d returned to that other place, infinitely familiar yet alien to everything he knew to be real.

_Here, this is my bed, here is the book which dropped from my hand – Plato’s Republic. Look, there is the brandy I carried with me. Here is my hand, laid across my chest. It looks to be mine, although it doesn’t move on command. Something’s different though – each finger bare of ornament. Don’t I wear a ring? Why would I – such a foppish affectation? Never been much one for jewelry, yet this one had some significance…didn’t it? Or do I only imagine it in dream-state?_

_I am alone in my bed, in my chamber at Brocket Hall. Where else would I be? Where else would I awaken? Have been here since…since what seems an eternity, since that other life, the one where I mattered, where my presence had import and significance, ended abruptly._

_She is not here. I am quite alone. Why would she be here? Why would I think such a thing – the very idea lèse-majesté, those thoughts, those feelings, fought against all those years by her side. Buried too deeply to be dug up now, it only compounds the pain every new day brings._

_Alone but no, not quite right and I mustn’t be bitter – sweet Adine brings joy and shows me the tenderest care. How fortunate is Frederick to have married such an angel? How unfortunate I – no, mustn’t think that, it profits nothing._

Lord Melbourne lay in his bed no one knew how long, unattended, eyes open, body still. All through the darkest hour of the night, he took stock of his surroundings, inventoried what he knew of his life and tried to reconcile those sublime dreams of another life, another William Lamb, another _them_ , with what he began to recall of his life here, in this place. All he could recall clearly was absence, the bleak absence of that single glowing presence who made all else worthwhile, knowing she was only a short distance away yet utterly out of reach. Moved on, she had moved on, and that was as it should be, as it had to be but oh! it left such a huge gaping hole in one’s heart.

“Papa! Papa!” Lord Melbourne woke with a start, head reeling, disorientation complete. He struggled to align his thoughts, rearrange his mind, into some semblance of normalcy – whatever that was. Thoughts flashed in desperate sequence – a child, reaching for him, climbing up on the bed and across his limbs, forcing herself into his embrace by lifting his arm. _Had Adine a child? Did Fred have an heir?_

“Papa…” Now the sleepy little voice was strident, demanding. A little hand tugged on the ruffle of his nightshirt imperiously. _Lily!_ The name popped up in his mind like a cork bobbing to the surface of churning water. _Princess Elizabeth. The Queen’s daughter._ My _daughter! How remarkable! This must be a dream_.

This most demanding and autocratic of toddlers had no patience with inattention or the failure of immediate response from her beloved father. Hair a wild tousled mass of curls as dark as Victoria’s, big blue eyes with that same gleam in them. Lord Melbourne raked both hands through his hair and smiled, lifting the princess into his arms and settling her beside him. If this was the dream, and that other place the reality, he preferred this and would cling to it as long as he could.

**

Neither father nor daughter had any desire to fall back asleep, so in the earliest hours of dawn Melbourne left her only long enough to step into his dressing room and pull on yesterday’s trousers and shirt. Then they made their way downstairs to the kitchen. A fire was banked in the stove and he looked around helplessly, wondering where such staples as fresh bread and butter might be kept and, most urgently, how he might prepare coffee unaided.

Lily sat on the counter where he’d placed her, pointing and uttering emphatic suggestions to no avail. His hapless efforts amused her greatly and she giggled. Melbourne threw up his hands in defeat, swung her high in the air and settled her on his shoulders.

“If we can’t breakfast we can surely see that your pony does better. Shall we go to the stables?”

When they stepped out into the kitchen yard, Lord Melbourne and his daughter were greeted by a near-opaque wall of thick fog. Moisture dripped from the eaves and low-hanging branches nearby. He felt a chill go through him – the bleak blank landscape, only bare black outlines of a few solid objects visible, was too like that other place, the desolate dreamscape of his night terrors. He was grateful for the solid weight and warmth of the child in his arms, the security of her arm looped around his neck and her bright chatter in his ear.

Her pony and her brother’s were in the nearest stables. Farther along stood riding horses, then hunters, then the carriage and draft animals. Cats slipped out of sight, wary of intruders, and the horses roused themselves with soft homely sounds. The barn smelled of animals and fresh hay, a good scent, earthy and real, and that too helped Melbourne shake off what remained of his dream-induced depression.

Surprisingly, Gage, the elderly senior stableman, was awake in his small room adjacent the tack room, and Melbourne detected the welcome scent of coffee.

They were welcomed jovially, and if the old man – a former Ascot rider who had long since retired to oversee His Lordship’s stock – touched his forelock by way of greeting and dusted off the only other chair at his two-person table. Lily, still in her nightgown and with pudgy feet bare, greeted him like an old friend and began questioning him on the precise nature of breakfast in the stables.

“Because I am very hungry and there is no food in the kitchen,” she informed him. “May I share your bread and butter please?”

Melbourne thought of correcting her but refrained, seeing that their host seemed pleased to be asked. He cut a thick slab of bread from the loaf on his plate, spread it under the princess’s careful direction with fresh-churned butter and to her delight produced a crock of honey.

Melbourne himself accepted a cracked stone mug filled to the brim with strong black brew, declined cream, and inhaled gratefully. He leaned against the bureau pressed against one wall and watched, amused, as his daughter and her host conversed over breakfast. This child, with her delightful boldness and disregard of the constraints of her station, was never to be reduced to a caricature, performing proscribed ritual motions, devoid of personality, her singular courage and self-assurance erased or buried beyond salvaging. Melbourne knew with perfect certainty that if this world was the dream, and that other bleak lonely place his reality, he had no desire to venture back across the veil he’d drawn in his mind.

By early afternoon the fog had cleared and a steady rain fell over the green landscape surrounding Brocket Hall. When a footman came to the library to announce his first visitors – Clarendon and Lansdowne had shared a carriage – Melbourne rose to greet them. His son followed at his side, accepting the required obeisance with his usual quiet dignity from each gentleman in turn. These betrayed very little surprise to see the Prince of Wales ruralizing at Brocket Hall absent all ceremony, and after bowing formally they promptly ignored him as they would any other small child. Melbourne led them inside and good-naturedly accepted the ribbing he expected at being caught out playing nursemaid. Lily strode up rather more boldly, waiting expectantly for her own greeting. She extended her small hand to these men with an air which might have been comical in one less self-possessed, for the top of her head barely passed the knees of her courtiers.

“Must we wait for the others?” Lansdowne questioned Melbourne. “I admit I’m damned anxious to see what you have to show us. There’s no State secret held as close as the Rothschild family holds their correspondence.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

Victoria read voraciously. She had no great opinion of her own intellect or understanding and compensated by arduous study and attention to detail. She had committed every word William uttered to paper, most of her journal entries consisting of things he said, comments he made no matter how offhandedly on any one of the subjects they discussed, the wonderful context he provided on every issue so that she was able to comprehend a thing entirely, far beyond only rote facts. Victoria knew that facts were mutable things and truth an abstract concept. Moreover, it seemed everyone who _had_ an opinion on a thing necessarily could not be trusted to render a fair and accurate account of _both_ sides of an issue. All sides rather, she corrected herself, for there were few binary arguments.

Stacks of newspapers were delivered to her office daily. British papers, the Times, the Post, the Manchester Guardian, the Sunday Observer, the Herald from Glasgow, the Belfast News. Papers from Paris, Vienna, Geneva, Lisbon. She requested and received frequent clippings from more obscure local papers abroad from her ambassadors, and all knew that Her Majesty was always pleased to receive letters from those traveling or stationed abroad containing anecdotes of local color, the mood of the country, the price of bread in rural villages.

Few knew how hard she worked. Melbourne knew. Some of their most enjoyable private moments had been spent as she pored over her papers, taking notes in a careful hand while he leaned over her shoulder, picking one or another piece and providing the colorful commentary which made the driest topic, the most mundane mention of this or that person, come alive in his telling. Lehzen acted as an informal secretary, and the three of them would work in perfect, if peculiar, amity on these occasions, the Baroness skimming foreign papers and calling out articles which might be of interest, Melbourne offering to take a preliminary glance and Victoria sneaking small, satisfied glances at the two people she loved best in the world finding common ground in the newsprint scattered about.

Victoria sat alone, going through her papers, pausing only occasionally to sip coffee from the china cup on her desk. She was learning to tolerate the brew because it was one more thing which bound her to William – he would never insist on such a thing, in fact would be horrified to think that she altered her tastes to suit his - but in his absence, Victoria savored the bitter bite because it reminded her of him. Beside her on a low table, the strange bird William had bought her in Paris chirped its mechanical song, repeating until the mechanism wound down and she must wind the key once again. Thinking of the ritual repetitions which made up so much of the duties of a constitutionally constrained monarch, a ceremonial figurehead, the metaphor was not lost on her.

She liked no better than she ever had the loss of control engendered by loving another being so desperately. Their bond was so much more than the placid, dutiful “love” which accompanied “honor” in Christian marriage vows. William Lamb was her friend, her father, brother and teacher, as well as the deliriously passionate lover to whose touch she thrilled, every inch of her, but he was so much more. _He is my everything_ , was her catechism. Most delightful, most charming of men – and she was not unique in that opinion; everyone who knew him liked William Lamb – there was no other companion she could ever desire. His conversation was endlessly amusing, whimsical and quite out of the ordinary. He was the most perfectly _beautiful_ man she had ever beheld, and to her occasional chagrin that too was an opinion clearly shared by others.

Victoria was out of sorts, ached with longing for her husband, craved the easy companionship of her friend, was empty without her lover. That he was unable to endure another day confined with Leopold and the rest, Victoria understood all too well. Under any other circumstances she would have encouraged him to go to Brocket Hall ahead of her. She must stay and do her duty – despite her threats to do just that, Victoria knew she could not literally expel visiting royalty, particularly her own uncle. She was to host a dinner in his honor and they would attend a play. Then there would be church on Sunday morning and finally – finally! – they would all depart.

Victoria wanted so much to take back the angry words, the flash of temper William had seen and almost – very nearly – returned in kind. Victoria knew she had angered him, and could not quite be sorry for it, when she thought about the cause. A small shamed voice whispered in her mind. She certainly understood his sudden decision to travel to his country room early and wait for her there. But that he would think to take the children! That offended Victoria on so many levels, she could feel her anger rise again in mere contemplation. Those children were the property of the Crown and the nation – surely, he knew that as a former First Lord! Well, she could not take them abroad without involving the government, but if there was no particular restriction on traveling miles from London, it was still… _unwise?_ Victoria flailed about in her own mind, seeking some logical objection to the proposed trip. _Because they’re_ mine occurred as an argument, but probably one it would not behoove her to make. Of course, they were his too, biologically; and in law, while they were his stepchildren by marriage, even his harshest critics applauded the job he did acting as parent to the two royal children. The love, the kind, patient attention he showered on them, to the exclusion of all those who might have a claim to precedence. Even the Queen.

And that, Victoria conceded with ruthless self-honesty, was the crux of the issue. Why should he _want_ the company of the children, any more than he should appear soaked with Lily’s tears, clearly besotted with the tiny girl and not caring who saw it, even at the cost of his dignity? The children – they were necessary adjuncts to _her_ , she married to provide an heir and a spare and although William performed that service rather than her husband, the job was done. She loved her children, of course she did – it was, after all, her duty to love them. To ensure their health and well-being, that they were properly cared for and well educated, that they were taught moral precepts and the prayers of the Church, the manners expected of well-born children. But the children had nothing to do with _them_ , with her and Lord M. _Interlopers_. When the word formed itself in her thoughts, Victoria gasped. Now the shame she felt was front and center in her consciousness. _What kind of mother resents her own children as_ interlopers _?_ Victoria asked herself. But the answer was plain, and it went a long way towards assuaging her conscience. No other family of her acquaintance admitted their offspring to the life of the family, elevated them to a role in which they occupied such primacy as these did with William.

She need only look around her for example. Her ladies – William’s own niece Lady Jocelyn, Lady Canning, Lady Lyttleton’s daughter – all had small children, and these were left in the nursery at some country estate while their mother served months’ long duty rotation at court, participated in society balls and traveled, sometimes with their husband and sometimes alone or with friends. Lady Somerset, William’s old friend Lady Holland, his own sister – no ladies of quality paid more than cursory attention to their offspring until they were of marriageable age, and their lords even less. After the first, why, they cared little whether they had even participated in the _conception_ and not at all in subsequent matters related to childrearing. Armies of servants existed to tend to children, wet-nurses, nursery attendants, governesses, tutors and then the boys were sent away to Eton at ten or eleven, the girls to finishing schools in Bath, or Geneva, or Paris.

Victoria recalled stories she’d heard, from William himself and more frequently from his admirers, of the care and attention he’d lavished on his son. Augustus as a backward child, then as a grown man quite mad and unable to be left unattended for any period had required constant care. Rather than confine him to an institution as anyone else would have done – as his own sister had urged – William had kept Augustus with him. She had assumed it was because finding trustworthy caretakers was impossible and of course, William had too kind a heart to abandon his feeble-minded son to the brutal attentions of watchers who might abuse and neglect him.

 _But our children are quite_ normal! _And we have a palace full of trustworthy servants, and Lehzen, who would give her life before allowing harm to come to either one._

Her mind replayed instances galore, of William seated at a low table talking to Liam about the fine details of some invention he was drawing – an interest her son had clearly developed from the mechanical toys and devices Albert used to bring him – or playacting whatever role Lily dictated as she acted the part of a Viking warrior princess or Egyptian queen. _Always with a sword in her hand_ , Victoria recalled with a smile. Her daughter had no interest in the dolls so carefully preserved from her own childhood, unless it was to attempt to cut off one’s head or enact some drama involving kidnapping and rescue by force, of which she would be the avenging heroine.

Victoria secretly favored her son, so like William, in his quiet, slightly melancholy manner which brightened whenever he laid eyes on his mother. Liam did not demand active participation in whatever play caught his fancy. He was liable to be found reading, writing or drawing, or quietly watching out the window of his nursery and making up stories in his head which he shyly recounted. Liam at least seemed to _like_ her, whereas Lily clearly viewed her mother as a rival for her father’s attention, every bit as much as Victoria did likewise.

**

“The Viscount Palmerston, Your Majesty.” The Royal footman announced, opening the door wide to permit Henry Temple to enter.

Lord Palmerston, currently out of government but not for long if Peel’s fears were realized, came smoothly forward and dropped to one knee before the Queen. The only gentleman other than Lord M to greet her in the archaic form of genuflection, Victoria suspected Palmerston continued the tradition as part of his understated, gentle rivalry with Melbourne for the Queen’s favor. Even now, long after the matter had been settled, he persisted. She smiled, holding out her hand.

Palmerston was a tall, vigorously handsome man in his middle years, handsome in an outdoorsy, sportsmanlike way. He was outgoing, charming, an outrageous flirt with every lady he encountered, including the Queen, and so easy to like Victoria could not resist doing so, despite some of the difficulties his past foreign policy adventures had caused. Victoria knew that when he returned to government he would once again be the headstrong, self-led man who nearly plunged the Kingdom into war with the French. He would bear watching in the political arena, but Melbourne had impressed upon his Queen the need to compartmentalize. Ideological foes could be, and often were, the best of friends. In this case, they were even family.

“Lord Palmerston! This is a surprise.” Victoria walked around and chose a seat at one end of a long sofa, waving at her brother-in-law to do likewise.

“Does that mean I’ve committed another faux pas?” He asked, pretending to be stricken, his eyes twinkling. “Must I await an invitation to see my favorite sister-in-law?”

“’Favorite?’ I think you slight Lady Beauvale. You must not have favorites.” Victoria relaxed, enjoying the banter.

“Adine? Lord Beauvale does not like me so I hardly know his bride. You, ma’am, are definitely my favorite. Where is William?”

“Did you come to see him? He is not here. He went into the country yesterday.” Victoria did not miss the gleam of interest in Palmerston’s eyes.

“And left you here to entertain the King of the Belgians yourself? I did not picture Melbourne as such a neglectful husband.”

Victoria pursed her lips. “He is not. There is no need for him to endure the company of all my relations endlessly. I will join him at Brocket Hall on Sunday.” She paused, then added to see the effect. “He took the children with him.”

She was not disappointed. Palmerston expressed his surprise with a comical gesture.

“So he travels with the infantry and a pack of housemaids?”

“Not at all. One girl, otherwise he will tend to them himself.” Victoria found herself ready to defend William’s unorthodox choice.

“Our William – always an original.” Palmerston contented himself with a raised eyebrow. “Hmmm…he has the children with him. I would have thought otherwise, in light of the fact that I suspect he’s entertaining some of our old friends. Perhaps all of them are engaged in tutoring the Prince of Wales on banking reform.”

Victoria smiled slightly, confused. “What on earth does that mean, Lord Palmerston?”

“I heard in the club that Lansdowne and Clarendon had gone out in the country for the day or the weekend, my informant wasn’t quite sure. But it’s not hunting season and neither are known to be agriculturists. Then I ran into another old friend who mentioned he’d seen Normanby on his way out of town to visit Fred at Brocket Hall. And Emily heard from Lady Uxbridge that her husband was with Fred and William both. It seems William has himself a stag party underway.” Palmerston smirked, stretching out his long legs and laying an arm across the back of the couch. _He certainly claims ownership of all around him_ , Victoria thought, uncertain whether she admired or disapproved of his excessively masculine display.

“Perhaps he is. I won’t be concerned until you tell me there are a troop of actresses headed for Brocket Hall.” Victoria lowered her eyes, pleased at her own daring response, not wanting to betray herself with a smile.

“In that case, ma’am, I believe I can alleviate any potential cause for concern. I’ll ask Emily to head out that way and play hostess. It wouldn’t do for me to go since I clearly haven’t been invited. She can check on the children to be sure they haven’t been forgotten and left to run wild, and ensure the gentlemen get a good dinner. And whilst she’s there, rid the place of any actresses who might appear to provide entertainment.”

“You and Emily were invited to attend the theatre with us tonight,” Victoria reminded him. “She accepted days ago. Did she not tell you? I thought you two might leaven the company of my uncle and his wife.” Victoria laughed at Lord Palmerston’s momentarily blank expression. Then, recollecting, he nodded.

“I do remember something of that. No matter if I do or not, Emily would simply tell me to put on tie and tails and march me out the door when the time comes. I am reluctant to deny her such a treat as the opportunity to enjoy His Majesty’s company but in this case, I feel safe in saying she won’t mind an excuse to travel out of town.”

“You will still attend? Without your lady?” Victoria was aware she quite looked forward to Lord Palmerston’s company. The prospect of hours spent in close proximity to her family alone in the royal box dismayed her. Of course, her ladies-in-waiting would attend her, but protocol required them to stand in the rear of the box and so they could do little to distract her from Leopold prosing in her ear.

“I think we can avoid scandal. We are family, after all.” Palmerston mimed a leering expression for her amusement and Victoria laughed.

“I will be off now, to let Emily know her plans have changed. William is never not happy to see her, so I’m confident her presence will be welcome, no matter how unexpected.”

 _And_ , Victoria thought _, you will be more than eager to hear what she reports back on this mysterious meeting. As will I._

**

Protocol dictated that the King of the Belgians lead the Queen in to dinner. Feodora’s husband, Prince Ernst of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, seated her before taking his own chair on her left. Over the first course Leopold discussed the upcoming State visit of the King of Holland, the intention of the Duke of Nemours, which would coincide with the annual Trooping of the Colors. Victoria knew he was strongly hinting that she might ask him to extend his visit so that he could ride at her side on that occasion, and so she diverted his attention by discussing Sir John Franklin's expedition to find the Northwest Passage. Since Leopold uncharacteristically had little knowledge of the expedition Victoria was able to enlighten him and thereby occupy his attention.

Feodora and the Duchess of Kent were discussing Mr. Disraeli’s new novel _Sybil, or The Two Nations_. Melbourne had been offered an advance copy through the intermediary of a mutual acquaintance, which he declined, repeating the offer to Victoria only to demonstrate transparency. Mrs. Norton continued her sporadic attempts to re-establish herself on terms of friendship with the Queen’s husband by any means necessary, and Victoria suspected the offer of this particular novel – and the flaunting of her connection to the author – had another motive. As with her own ill-received saga and Mr. Engles’ _The Condition of the Working Class in England_ , Mr. Disraeli’s newest work sensationalized the plight of the poor in a way which made Victoria uncomfortable. Her own sensibilities, and her sense of duty to her people, seemed to require she do something – _surely as sovereign, I must do what I can to_ _alleviate suffering_ – but as to what, Victoria could formulate no firm idea. Melbourne’s view on such matters tended toward laissez-faire capitalism, and while she knew better than anyone his generous heart, she also knew that he prized his own peace of mind, and hers, above all else. As Queen, Victoria knew it to be her duty to confront unpleasantness in all its forms, and did not have the luxury of turning away. Still, it was a vexing problem and one of which, while she certainly never forgot, she did not want to be continually reminded.

The sound of voices raised in laughter, Lord Palmerston’s own hearty tones central to the sound, persuaded the Queen that the far end of the table must be a far merrier place than her own. Never a big eater, she dispatched each course rapidly, taking a single bite of this or that, or even just dipping her spoon.

The inevitable question from Leopold came with the last course, a circumstance for which Victoria was grateful.

“And where is Lord Melbourne? I have not seen him yesterday or today. I hope he is not unwell? Gout, you know –“

“William does not suffer from gout, Uncle. Thank you for your concern.”

“Still – he does not join us? Will he accompany us to the opera tonight?”

“No, Uncle. He has gone to Brocket Hall with the children.”

Leopold arched his brows with such energetic force that his toupée lifted as well. Victoria caught her lip between her teeth to suppress an urge to laugh.

“He has taken His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and the Princess Royale to Brocket Hall? How singular!”

“Not at all, Uncle. The children love Brocket Hall.” Victoria’s tone indicated that her interest in the topic was concluded. She used her fork to idly dislodge a few fragments of pastry from the portion on her plate, and took a sip of wine.

“I would have thought they would more enjoy the company of their cousins. They have so little exposure to other children, it is no surprise that they do not know how to conduct themselves.”

Victoria’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “My children are very well-behaved! They have no need to learn how to conduct themselves; they do so quite satisfactorily.”

“Even so…your daughter drew blood from my son, and your own boy did nothing to intervene. That surely is not satisfactory behavior from a prince and princess of the royal blood.”

“What _did_ your son do to make Elizabeth want to hit him?” Victoria snapped. “Perhaps you should tell me. I have only the governesses’ version, which I found it hard to credit.”

If Leopold noted the dangerous glint in Her Majesty’s eyes, or the set of her features, he did not pay any heed.

“I’m not aware what the governesses might have told you, but Leo did nothing to inspire such a show of temper. The Princess took offense at his reminder of the etiquette required at Court. He was quite correct to insist that your – that the Viscount Melbourne bow to them.”

“Your _son_ suggested my husband should _bow_ to whom exactly?” Victoria set down her wineglass with great deliberation, concentrating on releasing the fragile stem before it snapped in her fingers.

“According to the rules of precedence at _this_ court as well as most courts of Europe, a Viscount – even one who is consort to a Queen Regnant – must bow to any prince of the blood, and most especially to the heir to the throne. So…my Crown Prince Leopold and your Prince of Wales certainly, as well as the Princess Elizabeth and my Princess Charlotte.”

“That would be _four_ bows you imagine my husband should execute? To _children_ playing _cricket?”_ Victoria knew her voice had risen sharply when several heads turned in her direction and more than a few gazes fixed sharply on her end of the table.

Leopold merely smiled stiffly, his habitually painstaking grimace which contained no real humor.

“Exactly.”

Victoria collected herself. She composed her features into a pleasant mask and signaled her intention to rise. She permitted a soft silvery laugh, which seemed to relax the level of tension. Then she smiled warmly at Leopold.

“Go to hell, Uncle.” As soon as she stood, everyone at the table did likewise. Without looking she swept out of the room, leading the ladies so that the gentlemen could enjoy their brandy.

**

Enough carriages had been ordered that the couples could travel separately. Victoria pointedly invited Viscount Palmerston to ride with her. As soon as they were underway he met her eyes with such a comically understanding expression that she burst out laughing.

“God gives us relatives. Thank God, we can choose our friends,” Palmerston quipped. “True for everyone except the Lambs. Never have I seen a closer family, especially considering how little related they are.”

Victoria merely sighed. “What time did Emily for Brocket Hall?”

“Hours ago. She will be there long since. Hoyden that she is, undoubtedly enjoying after dinner brandy with the gentlemen, and cigars too, if she’s offered.”

“I wish I was there!” The Queen said most emphatically. Palmerston gave her a sidelong glance.

“And why did William go off without you? Not trouble in Paradise I hope?”

“No! Why would you think such a thing?” Victoria tried to glare, but was unable to meet his eyes.

They traveled the rest of the way in silence. When they arrived at the theatre, Palmerston exited the coach and held his hand up to assist Her Majesty, supplanting the groom who was prepared to perform that office. Victoria laid her hand on his arm and swept inside. As little as she was so inclined, Victoria remembered to pause periodically and look towards the crowds assembled behind barricades to catch a glimpse of their Queen.

She knew she looked especially well, in a blue-green silk gown, cut so it bared both shoulders and showed her neck to advantage. Her jewels glittered in the light of lamps burning on either side of the entrance, their sparkle equaled by that of the light of a hundred tiny lanterns which seemed to be floating in the trees overhead. Rain had fallen most of the day, and the London air smelled unusually fresh and clean as a result.

Beside her, Lord Palmerston took to the promenade with far more alacrity than Lord Melbourne. He seemed to enjoy the attention of the populace, grinning and saluting when some impudent female shouted out his nickname from the street. “Cupid!”

There were chairs for six in the royal box. Victoria’s uncle clearly expected to seat himself in the front row. She indicated with an inclination of her head that her escort was to sit beside her, leaving the second row of chairs for the King and Queen of Belgium.

Victoria was a great fan of opera, a taste her husband did not share. She was accustomed to Lord M falling discreetly asleep during a performance. He did it so well people scarcely noticed, and generally only she was close enough to hear his soft snoring. Palmerston did no such thing, instead looking around with great zest, clearly interested in showing off his presence in the royal box at the Queen’s right hand. He also took great interest in the performers, borrowing the Queen’s glass from time to time when he wanted a closer look. She was quite sure his scrutiny was not prompted by musical appreciation alone, and on one occasion he looked up in time to catch her watching him with an amused smile.

“Since the loveliest lady present is not mine to ogle, I must divert myself somehow, ma’am,” he said suavely. Victoria thought his eyes were kind, the expression in them warm, and she was aware of liking him greatly. Troublesome he might be, and would surely become again, but that was politics, as Lord M told her. Personally, she liked the man beside her as much as she had when she was a young woman of eighteen dazzled by the attentions of gentlemen like Palmerston. It was not the same, of course, as her affinity for Lord Melbourne – from the moment he first bowed before her, Victoria had been aware of finding her way back to a place she had not known she was longing for. _That_ was something so sublime, occupying another plane entirely, but _this_ – knowing herself to be the object of admiration from a gentleman, was quite amusing in its own way. If she had not known herself to be quite safe she would not have engaged in even the lightest flirtation, of course, but what harm could there be with Lord M’s own brother-in-law, his lifelong friend, beloved of his sister? They were, after all, family.

**

After her maids completed her toilette and Victoria was left to herself, she found herself reluctant to get into bed and went to the window seat instead. It was one of her favorite spots, where at night she could look out over the rooftops of her sleeping capital and imagine the lives people lived, ordinary people living quite ordinary lives. She tried to orient herself geographically – if that was London there, then surely the road which led west would be that way? It was foolish, of course – Brocket Hall could not be seen from London – but she wanted to face the right direction, so at least she could imagine they were looking at the same stars.

When she finally yawned often enough that she thought she might sleep, Victoria padded to her bed and slid under the covers. Victoria turned over on her side, wrapping her arms around herself as though it was he who held her. Her hands slid down over her own arms, stroked her own taut skin, even caressed her own breasts briefly. Not to pleasure herself – that was for him, sacred to _them_ \-  but to comfort herself in his absence. She willed him to hear the voice of her heart over the miles which separated them. _Oh, William, I miss you! I love you, I adore you. You are my everything._

 


	13. Chapter 13

21 June 1845 -Midsummer’s Night

It was the longest day of the year, to be followed by the shortest night. William Lamb stood outside under a violet tinted sky. The sun had set not long before, yet full dark had not yet descended. For that, he was glad.

Rain had fallen off and on all day – 1845 was proving to be a cold, wet season in Hertfordshire, as it was throughout the islands. The sky had unexpectedly cleared late in the afternoon, and although the leaves still glistened with fat droplets the paving stones were on their way to drying.

The great house behind him was silent – eerily silent. Earlier it had been filled with the racketing voices of children, their piping voices filling the air with questions and childish chatter. The evening before, different voices had occupied him. Now, with guests gone back to London or on to country homes and his children had finally surrendered to sleep despite their best intentions, Melbourne had nothing left to do except enjoy the twilight hush.

Standing on the portico, inhaling the rich smell of turned earth, rain and the heady perfume of lilac hedges, Melbourne felt too tired to move. He rubbed his chin ruefully, ran a hand through his tousled hair and glanced down wearily at his attire. He briefly considered bathing and changing but was unwilling to face a potential eruption from the nursery if he ventured upstairs.

Melbourne remembered endless hours of filibustering from Opposition leaders in the House, had greeted the dawn on more occasions than he could count emerging from the dim interior of a gentleman’s club, had danced until three on the arm of his indefatigable first wife, and could not remember being as thoroughly exhausted as he was at the moment.

 _Two small children, one useless nursery maid out of her depth and a houseful of servants far more accustomed to providing for the needs of a bachelor than the unique requirements of a pair of infants._ _I’ve made a right mess of it_ , he thought, wishing he could dredge up some humorous way to recast his abysmal failure to care for the children on his own.

Even that humbling thought didn’t extinguish the tingling anticipation he felt, knowing that she would soon arrive. _Was expected_ to soon arrive– Melbourne knew all too well how readily delays could arise, and she had, during their terse final exchange, given him no certain time she would set out, no assurance she would come to him at all. He tried – quite unsuccessfully – to squelch his eagerness to see his wife again and, he conceded, the very competent Baroness Lehzen. Melbourne made a mental note to find some small token expressing his appreciation to that dour German spinster. They had long since reached détente but he realized now he owed her far more than mere courtesy and consideration.

When he turned to step back through the doors to his library, Melbourne fancied he heard his bones creak. He knew his back protested the movement as well, but the lure of the brandy decanter forced him onward. He took his first long sip standing, exhaled a long appreciative sigh and refilled his glass. Then he sank down into his large armchair and put up his feet.

**

_Details which had to be decided regarding the upcoming visit of Prince Louis of Orleans, Duke of Nemours. A letter from the Duchess of Northumberland which had to be answered and sent by courier to Syon House before that lady set out for her country estate. Charlotte Canning wanting leave, Sarah Lyttleton seeking a sinecure for her son Spencer, to improve his chances with the family of his one true love, a maid-of-honor named Sarah Dawson. Spencer was handsome, wayward, impecunious and overly fond of gambling, and only the most overt show of royal patronage might convince her family to favor his suit. Victoria granted him a fifteen-minute audience and the boy – she couldn’t help but think of him thus, although he was at least her age – spent the time flirting and preening himself like a peacock. A minor place at court was found for him, to his mother’s great satisfaction, but Victoria thought his only talent might be to set the ladies in a tizzy._

_My Lord Chamberlain insisting that final orders for the Trooping of the Colors must be decided now – not on Tuesday, not on Wednesday, but today, so that regimental commanders might have ample time to prepare._

_Her mother asked once more if Victoria would not reconsider her decision not to visit Germany – Albert’s extended family had so been looking forward to his children laying eyes on their father’s homeland._ “Ridiculous, Mama, as you well know,” she only said. “But you may go without us, in state if you wish. They can receive you with all the pomp and ceremony they would show me.”

 _More minutiae ate up precious hours. Disagreement between her dressers, as to what and how much to pack._ “I have everything I need at Brocket Hall, Skerrett. It is our country home.” But of course, it was never as simple as that – her gowns might hang in the closet of the Queen’s Bedroom at Brocket Hall, but there was the question of linen and extra clothing for the children, who might well have outgrown whatever they’d left at their last visit.

“Why must I settle all this?” Victoria finally asked irritably, allowing her annoyance to show. _Lehzen to the rescue, finally, bringing order, tsk’ing her way past simpering junior housemaids and making the selections herself, briskly commanding_ this _gown_ , that _habit,_ those _jewels and be quick about it but by then another two hours had been lost, Her Majesty wishes to be underway._

As always when they were apart, there was that tiny niggling doubt – that kernel of concern. _What if_ _he’s had a change of heart? If he finds it more peaceful, less taxing, less_ stifling _to escape the pomp and protocol which follows wherever I go?_ What if _this time the magic is gone? If_ it _, whatever_ it _is, no longer leaps through the air between us and he sees me for what I am,_ a plain dull thing _?_

It was an overcast day, with fat low clouds threatening rain, so she’d regretfully allowed them to secure the top in place. There were three coaches, one for the Queen, Baroness Lehzen and the sole lady-in-waiting she’d taken, the second containing those servants deemed indispensable to the Queen’s comfort, and the third baggage and all those sundry items it seemed a Royal party could not travel without.

After all the trouble of packing and loading the coaches, assembling the requisite military escort, deciding who sat where, finally – _finally_ – they were underway, too near dusk for the comfort of the captain of the Household Cavalry, but on the road nevertheless. Victoria forced herself to sit back, to breath deeply and slowly and calm the sudden agitation she felt.

**

Melbourne awoke with a jerk and looked to the mantle clock. A quarter past two in the morning. His heart sank – she would not be coming tonight, clearly. He considered everything which might have delayed her, dismissed such speculation as fruitless, and resolved to set out as early in the morning as he could rouse the children and get them into a carriage. Once awake, all urge to sleep abandoned him and he paced restlessly before deciding to venture outside and calm his nerves in the cool night air. Under the stars, whatever stars there were, imagining that sharing the same dark velvet canopy above would bring them that much nearer.

Lord Melbourne was not well equipped to cope with emotional turmoil. He’d spent nearly his whole life fighting back intemperate emotion, maintaining equilibrium, and he did not much like the way reason and will were subsumed by the hold she had over him.  Those reflections exacerbated a low-simmering sense of frustration and annoyance and a tiny traitor voice deep in his mind whispered words as though they came from somewhere else. _I want my life back_.

**

An axle had broken on the lead carriage just after nine. Even on this, the longest night of the year, it was near full dark by the time passengers were extracted, Her Majesty deemed to have suffered no more than violent jostling and the horses were calmed. Then came the inevitable huddled consultation to devise a course of action – double up passengers in the second and third coach, send back for another mode of conveyance – but all ended with an aborting of their journey. Victoria would have none of it and just when she thought she might lose patience, temper and dignity in equal measure the unflappable Baroness Lehzen stepped in and proposed a reasonable solution. Still, it was nearly midnight by the time they were underway once more, with one less carriage and two fewer females, leaving a lady-in-waiting and one maid with the disabled carriage, drivers and postillions.

Where she should have been consoled by the continuation of travel, Victoria was instead in a vile temper, one which the stolid Baroness recognized all too well from the childhood tantrums of her tempestuous charge.

_If he hadn’t stormed off like he did…not one letter, not a single message sent…if my uncle’s behavior bothered him so why didn’t he deal with it? Why leave me to endure days of strife? He is a good man, and kind, but firm, no, not firm..._

Even what she’d been told of his exploits on the ship raised her ire. For so long Victoria had struggled to resolve the essential inner resentment that she was so dependent on another, that she lost an irretrievable part of herself when her heart was stolen. _So young! Who might I have been, what might I have become, if I had only waited? Not married Albert in haste, only to be with_ him _…_ Even amidst her roiling, amorphous resentment Victoria was honest enough to admit that there could be no such thing as a life worth living without Lord M somewhere in it, only… _what if I had waited? Had become as Elizabeth was, a strong independent woman – with a companion, but no husband, no children and above all, no need so great I couldn’t control it?_

**

It was a weary, travel-stained party who emerged from the carriages. Rain had fallen for much of the past hour, horses were mud-spattered and even within, the Queen was damp and chilled to the bone. Victoria did not sleep, but she had lapsed into sullen silence, arms wrapped about her, refusing the single lap robe, for no one had thought to pack more on a two-hour trip in June. When they made the final turn, past the stone posts which marked the beginning of the long flat approach to Brocket Hall, Victoria leaned out the window to look and saw no lamps burning in anticipation of their arrival. _No one waiting up for us, no one concerned at our delay. He probably forgot what day we were coming. If he wanted me to come at all._

She realized she’d spoken aloud, or her face had conveyed her thoughts with a fair degree of accuracy.

“Drina,” Lehzen said quietly. “Lord Melbourne will be pleased to see you no matter the hour.” Victoria only sniffed and the woman who knew her better than anyone sighed when she saw the Queen’s jaw clench.

He was, however, waiting to greet them – she had been wrong about that at least. Even before their coachman guided his team the final length Victoria saw, by the light of a watery new moon, a figure step forward. Addressing the outriders in his usual quiet, pleasant tones, greet John Coachman and then, finally, when a footman had lowered the step and opened the door, there he was. Victoria felt her traitor heart skip a beat – _so handsome! that beloved face!_ – and she lifted her eyes to meet his, before she remembered her previous temper.

He reached for her and she accepted his hand to guide her out of the carriage. With unfailing courtesy, he then extended a hand to assist Lehzen.

“Baroness, welcome to Brocket Hall. I am _so_ pleased to see you.” Victoria’s eyes flew open, startled, at the effusiveness of his greeting. If Lehzen smiled it was scarcely visible, but she ducked her head shyly and Victoria knew she was pleased.

“Thank you, Lord Melbourne. The children were more trouble than you anticipated then?” Victoria saw her husband’s pleasure at the dour Lehzen’s show of humor, and his smile. When he smiled few could resist, Victoria least of all. She had begun to soften, when she saw him glance at her with peculiar coolness.

“Ma’am,” he stepped aside, motioning for her to proceed, but did not offer his arm. _Very well! I will make my own way in._ Victoria felt her disappointment keenly, but she lifted her chin and held her head high as she walked past him into Brocket Hall.

Another half-hour past as the travelers were sorted out, refreshments offered and declined, and everyone retired. Victoria accepted only minimal assistance from her dresser – the girl was sleepy and uncommunicative, which exactly suited the Queen’s mood. As reassuring as it was to feel angry and proud, Victoria was left only out of sorts and eager for Lord M to come and make it all right. She dismissed her maid and sat uncertainly at the end of her bed, unwilling to accept she would sleep alone.

**

The drivers and postillions, and the military outriders, were glad enough to come into the kitchen for the ale and cold supper Melbourne’s undercook put out. His housekeeper took the maids in hand and saw them settled in the newly expanded servants’ wing. He offered – with great alacrity – to take the Baroness directly to the nursery, but she dismissed the suggestion out of hand. She would retire in the chamber adjoining their space and hear them when they awoke in the morning. Melbourne sheepishly described the assortment of scratches and bruises she would find on her darlings, as well as their unwashed condition, and she shook her head at that, but not without some kindness. She patted his arm awkwardly.

“We will contrive, Lord Melbourne.” When Lehzen too had gone into her bedchamber and closed the door firmly behind her, Melbourne was left standing uncertainly in the hallway. He knew himself to be in a foul mood for most of the evening, but now, at nearly three, all he wanted was to lay down beside his wife and let the tension ebb away. As much as he wanted to go to her, he lacked the fortitude to endure her coldness or temper, and the energy to be suitably contrite.

He knocked softly on her door and waited until he heard her soft muffled response. Victoria sat on a low bench at the foot of her bed, dressing gown wrapped around her small shape, hair loose and streaming over her shoulders. She looked up at him, and her expression was neither welcoming nor forbidding.

Melbourne sighed as lowered himself beside her. Despite the lingering tension, it felt so good, like coming home, the mere proximity.

“You look tired,” Victoria said finally, her voice low. As she spoke she looked up at him – his usually immaculate grooming absent, his chin whiskered, his wonderful green eyes shadowed and drowsy. Her lips just twitched as if suppressing a smile, and of their own accord his did likewise.

“Coming alone…with the children…was more difficult than I anticipated. Whatever we pay the Baroness, she deserves ten times as much. I’m afraid I’ve long underestimated all she does to keep our nursery in order.” Victoria did smile then – a grin, rather – and he huffed a small laugh.

“That difficult? I can only imagine – I have no idea what I would do without –“ she gestured broadly and he knew she referred to the entire palace machinery which kept her life functioning. Melbourne began describing some of the disorder – Lily scratched and bitten by a barn cat who did not appreciate being chased and picked up, Liam falling over some implement in the barnyard, Lily upsetting a whole tray of cakes and burning her fingers in the process – and as he did so, Victoria listened with awe and sympathy for his ordeal.

“I’m far too old to learn how to care for young children, and I was a fool to think otherwise,” he ended, suddenly sounding defeated.

“William! You are no such thing. Do you think I would have the least idea how to cope with the children if Lehzen and Lady Lyttleton and the nursery staff were not there? I would have no clue, nor would Mama or – do you think Uncle Leopold superintends his children personally? Or – well, anyone? Don’t talk that way!”

Melbourne twisted his lips in a wry smile. “Thank you. But then I must take the blame for being foolish and stubborn enough to have made the attempt. By doing so I put them in harm’s way.”

“Lord M! They ran wild like children will, if they’re not kept under control. I’ve heard enough stories from you and Emily to know your mother must have contended with endless scrapes and bruises. And worse!”

“But my mother was not rearing a future King.”

“Only the father of one.”

They sat together in silence. Then Victoria lay her hand on his knee, her fingers searching for his. He felt any lingering ill temper drain away and was suddenly only tired and very, very grateful for her presence.

“It’s been one hell of a day,” Melbourne said abruptly. He stood and gently tugged at her hand, pulling her to her feet. He briefly wondered if she would pull away, but instead she leaned into him. “Should we go to bed, Mrs. Melbourne?”

He stepped out of his trousers and slipped off his shirt, flopping down on the bed with a great exhalation. Victoria propped herself on one elbow and gently stroked as much of his long, lean body as she could reach. Melbourne felt indescribable peace wash over him, erasing any residual tension. He folded his arms behind his head and relaxed under her touch, so utterly, blissfully soothed.

“Take that off?” He asked in a hoarse whisper. “I doubt I have the energy to – but I would like to feel you, skin to skin.” Victoria pulled off her thin summer gown and slid down so she lay beside him, their naked bodies side by side. Her long hair fluttered against him, a ticklish sensation he added to the sublime whole of their connectedness. Melbourne briefly acknowledged he was not especially carnally aroused, and accepted it – their closeness, the fact that they could lay together in such perfect peace was enough, more than enough. Anything else would mar the perfection.

“I had Uxbridge and some others out yesterday,” Melbourne murmured distractedly, not wanting to stir even as much as it would take to go further. Victoria’s hand still moved over him in long, almost firm strokes which felt so good he thought he might melt. _This, then – this is as much a part of marriage as the minor frustrations. A partner with whom one can be utterly at ease._ This _is_ good.

“So I heard. Henry sent Emily out to see what it meant and why he was excluded.” Melbourne wondered whether she would require a full accounting now, but instead she merely yawned. He turned over onto his side, facing her, and his own hand slid between her thighs, searching, like a small animal seeking warmth.

“Tomorrow…” he murmured almost incoherently, nuzzling her neck, nibbling at one velvet earlobe. His fingers found what they were seeking, his movement almost purposeless, seeking comfort and sensation without any particular object in mind. It all seemed so easy, so peaceful, and if they were to fall asleep thus it would be good too. Victoria turned her face so that her lips met his, mere contact, not entirely a kiss. Melbourne found their lazy, almost somnolent movements profoundly intimate and erotic without the heat of passion, each sensation entirely sufficient onto itself. Her blue eyes were sleepy, the lids half closed so that her long lashes cast shadows on her cheekbones. She pressed her lips against his once more, then turned on her side, back to his front, her hand keeping his in place. Melbourne pressed his face into the back of her neck, sleep creeping up on him. He knew he could enter her or not, could slide his fingers against her wetness and bring her release that way, so long as their contact was not broken. When he pushed inside she relaxed against him, welcoming him without movement, and he was content to feel himself contained, to feel her rounded buttocks against his groin. With two fingers he rubbed and plucked and pressed, tiny almost insignificant pressures, because he knew her so well. She accepted his ministrations in stillness, and then caught her breath and her muscles spasmed around him, before she stilled once more. When he moved, it was only to push his hips against her, barely perceptible thrusts, until he felt himself melt into her. They did not separate, neither wanting to disrupt their union.

It was all good, so very good and perfect and right, and he could not conceive of it being any other way. 


	14. Chapter 14

The next day dawned considerably warmer than had been seen so far that year, and the chamber was already unpleasantly stuffy when Lord Melbourne opened his eyes. Debating whether it was worth the effort to climb out of bed and stumble to the window, when the limbs of his young wife were so thoroughly entwined with his, nature finally tipped the balance toward rising.

That wing of Brocket Hall was silent as a tomb, or so it seemed without the shrill cries of _Papa, Papa_ to break the silence. On his return from the privy Melbourne threw open both windows and stood unconcernedly surveying his land. Past rolling green lawns which gradually gave way to rougher pasture, he could see the placid River Lea, its smooth glassine surface dappled with light and shadow cast by the overhanging willows lining the bank.

Brocket Hall, so much more than the grander, far-distant Melbourne Hall, was his true home. On mornings like this long ago Melbourne, then plain William Lamb, would have already been out of doors, ranging free through the fields and woodland in the company of his brothers, followed by their small sister. Their mother, the Lady Elizabeth Lamb, had been a proud, fond parent, but not overly protective and her husband, the first Viscount Lamb, disinterested in any but his heir. A whole day could pass without adult supervision as they made their own adventures on a summer day.

With the peace of mind reunion with his wife brought, and the calm competent presence of her old governess, Melbourne thought he had perhaps been too harsh on himself regarding the children. Never again would he pretend to know how to provide the day-to-day care they required, yet perhaps the freedom of their father’s boyhood home – within reason and under the common-sense supervision of Lehzen, of course – would do them no harm.

“That’s a lovely sight to wake to.” Victoria was awake and had pushed herself up to a seated position, still gloriously naked, all rosy smooth skin and hair and eyes. She was grinning and looking at him pointedly. Melbourne looked down and realized he was still unclothed as well. He stretched languorously, almost preening under his wife’s appreciative glance. _Not bad for my years_ , he thought with satisfaction. His stomach was still nearly flat, legs long and unbowed, and he still had a full head of hair, more than most of his living contemporaries could say. And everything else worked as it should, to his young wife’s satisfaction. The apoplectic strokes he had suffered left no permanent damage, save the slightest weakness on his left side.

“Mine, all mine,” she crooned, one of those love-phrases that made up the secret language of their marriage. “But do bring it away from the window.” She swung her legs down and rose to meet him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“Good morning, my darling girl,” he hummed in her ear, lips pressed close. Victoria ran her hands down his back, over the slope of his buttocks. She unerringly knew where to touch him and how, bringing fresh pleasure.

“Mmmm…I never knew how fine it could feel to have my arse petted,” he joked, still holding her close.

“Then you probably don’t know what a fine arse you have to pet,” Victoria bantered back. She kissed his chest and stepped back.

“We should dress and see to the household. Lehzen is a wonder but I’m sure she expects some direction.” Belying her words, his wife’s hand cupped his sac, lifting it as though assessing the weight, stroking it with her thumb.

“We should,” Melbourne said agreeably, his own visible response contrary to his words.

**

Lehzen had brought the children to greet their mother. Melbourne had resolved to discourage the clear favoritism his youngest showed him. No matter how sweet it was to see the adoration in the eyes of his small tyrant, he knew it was up to him to mend the breach between mother and daughter. Victoria was sovereign and wife and mother, in that order, and he would have it no other way. If he could help her to unbend a trifle with her children, he would and if her inclination would not allow her to do so, well, she was their mother all the same and her children – Lily, in particular – must show her the affection which was her due. He thought that if only they would follow his example a little, they could learn to be easy with each other. _My two girls_ , he thought, heart overflowing with love for both.

He had plans to take Victoria down to the bank of the river, to show her what he had constructed there, but a message from Panshanger caught them as they were about to set out. Victoria looked at him questioningly as he folded over the note.

“Henry and Emily will come to call. They will dine with us.” He advised. “I suspect it is not simply a family visit. Henry is consumed by curiosity and has his nose out of joint as well, probably, that I did not invite him with the others I called out here. I will bring him into the loop of course, but first I hoped to be sure what I was dealing with.”

Victoria looked at him closely. “Will you tell me what that business is about?”

Melbourne had given great thought to how he would broach the subject to Victoria, wanting to have a firm understanding of the scope of the problem and at least some notion of what he would recommend. He had struggled with it since he’d left Paris and had some notion what the material from the bankers might contain.

“Of course, darling, I only wanted to have a clearer idea myself before I brought it to your attention. We can go over it now if you wish or I can tell you what I know as we ride to the river. I wish to show you something I had made.”

His wife – no, now it was his Queen – stood poised before him, displaying curiosity, no more. Melbourne was forcibly reminded realized anew that he was not her Prime Minister, only her husband and a loyal advisor, as far as his advice had merit.

“Whatever you will, darling. If you want to go over it now, please do. And if you prefer to only tell it once I can wait until Henry arrives.”

Melbourne’s lips quirked in a little teasing smile. “So docile? Very well, I will give you the briefest outline and you can ask what you wish.

“You’re aware, I know, of the history of our Canton trading posts, and the seizure of our inventory by the Chinese government in ’38. The _surrender_ , more accurately.” He handed her a copy of the Elliot order, part of Palmerston’s interim solution to the stalemate.

_I, Charles Elliot, Chief Superintendent of the trade of British subjects to China, presently forcibly detained by the provincial government, together with all the merchants of my own and the other foreign nations settled here, without supplies of food, deprived of our servants, and cut off from all intercourse with our respective countries . . . have now received the commands of the High Commissioner [Lin Tse-hsu] . . . to deliver into his hand all the opium held by the people of my own country._

_Now I . . . do hereby, in the name and on the behalf of Her Britannic Majesty's Government, enjoin and require all Her Majesty's subjects now present in Canton, forthwith to make a surrender to me for the service of Her said Majesty's Government, to be delivered over to the Government of China, of all the opium under their respective control: and to hold the British ships and vessels engaged in the opium trade subject to my immediate direction: and to forward me without delay a sealed list of all the British owned opium in their respective possession. And I . . do now in the most full and unreserved manner, hold myself responsible for, and on the behalf of Her Britannic Majesty's Government, to all and each of Her Majesty's subjects surrendering the said British owned opium into my hands, to be delivered over to the Chinese Government. And I . . .do further caution all Her Majesty's subjects here present in Canton, owners of or charged with the management of opium the property of British subjects, that failing the surrender of the said opium into my hands at or before six o'clock this day, I, . . hereby declare Her Majesty's Government wholly free of all manner of responsibility in respect of the said British owned opium._

_And it is specially to be understood that proof of British property and value of all British owned opium, surrendered to me agreeable to this notice, shall be determined upon principles, and in a manner hereafter to be defined by Her Majesty's Government._

“That would have resolved the issue satisfactorily then? If we – if our traders, for I won’t allow that Crown and Government had an active role in something as sinful as opium sale – complied with the demands of the Chinese emperor and surrendered all our stock?”

“This was misdirection only, darling, a chance to regroup. Make no mistake, Crown – and regrettably, that means you, even though no one supposes you to have had any active involvement – and Government were up to our necks in the Trade. By ’38 Britain was selling 14 _tons_ of opium a year in China, all of it grown in one province of India at little cost to us. That bullion was the biggest single source of revenue in the Kingdom. And it funded all the Company’s activities in India. We could not have held India, or built the greatest naval force the world has ever seen, without opium. It’s as simple as that, and as dirty a business. It’s been estimated that one in four Chinese men were addicted, and we were the primary source of the drug that – well, opium dens are not pretty places, and until it began trickling back to our shores, I’m afraid nobody much cared. But what I started to tell you was, to convince the traders to surrender their stocks without a fight, our government – _my_ government – promised to reimburse them for their losses. It ended up costing us over six _million_. That seems like a vast sum, and it was, but a fraction of the profits made in a single year. That was Palmerston’s ploy, to gain time to regroup and fight.”

Victoria sat on the arm of a settee, fanning herself with the proclamation she still held, the one written in her name.

“This was a dirty business, but we’re out of it now – it’s over? Isn’t it?” Melbourne hesitated. “In my address to the House of Lords, in January of 1840, I spoke of the situation in China and came out most strongly in support of our position there. But I did not have all the facts, I think.”

“You didn’t have all the facts, ma’am, because I withheld them. It did not seem wise, or politic, to burden you with the extent of our direct involvement in the sale of opium, or the growing of the drug, or the role we played in perpetuating a situation which Your Majesty had already declared yourself strongly opposed to on moral grounds. _Privately_ declared yourself, to me. To Palmerston likewise.”

“All this is in the past, William. And I have no doubt you did what was best to protect me, and the dignity of the Crown. I _know_ you, and you are the wisest, the best of men. All you do, you do because you believe it’s for the best.”

Melbourne inwardly cringed at her avowal. _Not the way I wanted to begin the day_ , he thought. Resigned, he continued.

“You do me far too much credit, ma’am, and I think your judgement may not be impartial where I am concerned. I am touched and flattered that is so, my love,” he picked up her hands and studied them. “But you must know by now I have a facility for avoiding unpleasantness, and not seeing those things which are troublesome. There is much I didn’t know myself, that I have only recently learned, but I _should_ have known those things. What was done, was done in your name, by my government, ma’am. And although it’s now a decade past, I am determined to clean up what I can. I don’t delude myself this information was shared as a friendly overture, or in the interest of transparency. It’s clearly a demonstration of what _could_ be revealed, publicly and for history, if we prove troublesome in future or pose an obstacle to the ambitions of the financiers who hold the true power.”

“Don’t look so serious, William. I understand these are solemn matters and I trust you will advise me what, if anything, is best done. You need not explain more now. I assume Henry is concerned because you consider his activities without consulting him?”

“Something like that. I never intended to keep anything from him, but he can be so rash and so damned _loud_ about everything that I find myself quite overpowered by whatever position he takes.”

Victoria shrugged. “I am not insensitive to the gravity of the issue, Lord M, but I think it need not trouble you quite so much. Whatever it is, we’ll determine the best course of action and pursue it. And-“ she smiled wryly in a way which Melbourne thought made her appear both confident and almost cynical. “I was never _quite_ so innocent as you believed, nor was I easily led. I too have a facility for seeing exactly what I want to see and looking no further, if it doesn’t suit me.”

 _I do not deserve her love, or the faith she has in me,_ Melbourne thought not for the first time. _But I’m damned glad I have it, and will do what I must to preserve it_.

“Now, Lord Melbourne, shall we ride?”

**

Melbourne led them down a path worn through the pasture, leading to the river. He made for a copse of willow trees along the bank, forming a small grove _._ Only when they had drawn up to the tree line was it apparent a path had been cleared through the undergrowth. He nudged his own horse forward first, suddenly eager as a boy to show Victoria what lay beyond.

They had not yet entered the grove, where they would have been concealed from view, when they heard the hoofbeats behind them, drawing closer at a rapid pace. Two riders had crested the final bank and were riding down the slope.

“We have company, it seems,” Melbourne said dryly, not bothering to hide his annoyance at the interruption of his plans for the day.

His sister rode in the lead, her hat flying behind her, secured only by its ribbons. Her husband, on a far larger mount to accommodate his size, was a length behind and gaining fast.

Emily pulled up short and came to a stop, laughing. Despite himself, Lord Melbourne grinned – she was as much a hoyden at fifty as she’d been at ten, a tomboy following behind her brothers, determined to keep up.

“He thought to race me, William, can you imagine? On a field where I’ve traipsed over every inch. Oh, do tell him about the races Father used to host here!” Emily’s fair hair was in disarray and her skirts hiked up, permitting her to ride astride, showing what would have been an unseemly amount of leg in St. James Park.

She belatedly began a more formal greeting to her sister-in-law, which Victoria waved off. “Hello, Emily. How did you find us? I didn’t know myself where we were riding.”

“Ah, I’ve been here several times while William’s project was under construction. I guessed it was complete, and just in time to take advantage of this wonderful hot day.”

Victoria looked from one to the other curiously. “Well, then, I must see what this project is.”

They had diverted a small flow from the river into a manmade pond made from rustic-appearing stone walls set in a rough circle. Moss like green velvet was already established, as was the ground cover, and shrubbery provided natural privacy under the overarching willow branches. Only gradually did the eye apprehend a hundred graceful touches, antique statuary cunningly placed in an almost organic display, small bright spots of color to delight the gaze, rustic benches and even a chaise. A fanciful little bridge spanned the inlet, and Japanese lanterns were placed in apparently random locations. Miniscule ripples indicated the presence of a constant infusion of fresh water.

Lady Palmerston had pushed to the front so she rode beside her brother, leaving Victoria to ride behind with Lord Palmerston. He winked at her conspiratorially, inclining his head toward the siblings.

Melbourne dismounted and tossed his reins aside, beckoning for Victoria.

“William, help me down,” his sister demanded imperiously. As he grudgingly complied Palmerston performed the same office for Victoria, with better grace.

“Oh, this is quite lovely, William! You’ve outdone yourself. Our swimming hole as children, but – fit for a Queen,” Emily enthused. “Victoria, do come and see what my brother has made for you!”

Melbourne did a poor job of disguising his annoyance. As dearly as he loved her he knew Emily’s vivacity to be overwhelming to his far more reserved wife.

“We are going to swim, William! It’s hot as Hades and this marvelous retreat is here waiting for us. Victoria, you want to swim? Tell him so! Henry, you will swim. You and William can dive the way my brothers did as boys.”

“We’re hardly boys anymore, Emily,” Melbourne cautioned. In truth he had had every intention of diving off the little bridge placed just so for that purpose, but not in the company of his sister and brother-in-law.

He saw his wife standing hesitantly beside her horse, her lower lip caught up in her teeth, looking at him uncertainly, her expression pleading.

“Victoria, you have no idea how _wonderful_ it feels to immerse yourself in cool water on a hot day and cavort about like fishes. Come! You two  – pray take the horses and tie them farther off. And don’t return until we call you.”

Through sheer force of will, Emily managed to get Victoria behind hedges planted seemingly for just that purpose, and by example showed her to undress to her chemise and drawers. By the time they stood in bare feet, toes curling into the damp earth, Victoria was giggling helplessly, arms crossed before her. Watching from some distance, Melbourne was torn between protectiveness and amusement. He knew full well just how much fun she would have, if she only allowed herself, and so he was secretly pleased when his sister coaxed her into the cool clear water.

When they were in water deep enough to reach their shoulders Emily daringly removed her drawers and threw them onto the bank and, laughing and finally snatching the strings, demanded Victoria follow suit. She showed her queen how to push off, extending her arms so it felt like she was floating in the water, and even roll over onto her back and permit the water to support her weight.

Victoria was so engrossed in the novel and very pleasing sensation she was not aware of the gentlemen returning until first Palmerston, then William hit the water with a great splash, having leaped from the small bridge. She caught only the merest glimpse before they submerged beneath the surface but she saw enough to realize they were both quite naked.

Emily laughed at her involuntary gasp. “Don’t be silly, Victoria. It’s how the boys always swam…and they are both mere boys at heart. Look at them.”

Both men were swimming with long powerful strokes, turning when they reached the end of the pond and kicking off to return. As she watched, William veered off course, grasping Henry about the neck and pulling him beneath the surface. They wrestled each other with great whoops and much splashing, playing like the boys to which Emily compared them. Victoria laughed to see her husband so carefree, and when she glanced up she saw Emily wore a fond, almost maternal expression.

They floated together in the far end of the pond, chatting in desultory fashion, Emily amusing the queen with her gossipy patter. Victoria found the floating such a perfectly peaceful sensation she forgot to be embarrassed when the men swam up beside them. In a flash she was reminded she wore nothing but her shift, now clinging to her and almost transparent. She struggled to find her footing, crossing both arms over her breasts, averting her eyes even though the bodies of both men were well hidden beneath the water.

“Victoria! Don’t fuss about Henry. He’s outgrown his _Cupid_ days, and has far too much fondness for William to ogle you, dear,” Emily laughed, making Victoria blush and look away.

“Emily, be a love and stop talking please,” her husband said fondly.

“So, do you like it?” Melbourne asked Victoria, tilting his head so he could meet her eyes. Still looking down shyly, she smiled.

“It’s wonderful! You created all this?”

“Mmmhmm. With the gardeners and a crew of workmen, but yes, I envisioned it as a spot where we could come _alone –_ “ he looked pointedly at his sister. “- or bring the children when they’re older.”

“It’s wonderful, William,” Victoria repeated. “And I’m quite grateful Emily was here, or I would not have had the courage to go in.”

“Then I must thank you, Em,” he said, ruffling her curly blond hair as though she were still a child. She raised her hand in turn and cupped his cheek tenderly. When she leaned forward as if to kiss him he jumped away, laughing. “Em, have some decency, for Heaven’s sake. Henry, take your wife in hand. Better yet, take her back to the house and give us a few minutes more.”

“William! That is rude!” Victoria protested. He wrapped his arms about her.

“I think we’ve all had our fill of swimming for the day. The water is still cool and you are shivering.”

While the other couple removed themselves from the water and dressed Victoria turned away, leaning her back against Melbourne so she could float on the surface once more. When it was their turn to exit, he handed her up the natural stone stairway. He pulled on trousers and shirt quickly, then helped Victoria to dress, buttoning her gown and tying the laces on her shoes.

Before they rejoined the others, Victoria turned into his arms and lifted her face up. “This was the most perfect surprise! We must come here often!” She parted her lips, inviting his kiss.

“ _Pour toi, Ma chère,”_ Melbourne whispered, tasting her mouth, inhaling her sweet breath. “ _Jusqu'à ce soir_.”

He helped her mount and together with Lord and Lady Palmerston rode back to the house. Melbourne realized he had not yet mentioned the letter, that letter she had never seen, which had been concealed from her by her own government, by order of the man riding beside them. The letter from the Daoguang Emperor to his fellow sovereign, a letter which history would be unaware she never saw.

 


	15. Chapter 15

The First Opium War: The East India Company steamship Nemesis, Second Battle of Chuenpi, 7 January 1841

“…had herself carried in quite naked on a silver platter. I’m sure it was quite the most memorable birthday William has ever had.” Emily finished triumphantly. Her own husband, having heard her stories more than once, and having in fact been present to witness the episode she described, still laughed heartily. Her brother William Lamb merely inclined his head, skewering her with a pained expression, his eyes darting to his wife’s face to assess her reaction.

“Of course, her exploits shamed the family. We considered her quite the little beast, and implored William to be rid of her. But there was never a dull moment when Caro was alive.”

Victoria was no longer as sensitive to reminders of her husband’s long colorful life as she had been. In fact, compared to her living rivals, Victoria had developed a strange affinity for the woman who came before her. She nonetheless was at a loss for words, unsure quite which response would be appropriate. Certainly, as Head of the Church of England and the good Christian girl her pious governess had so carefully reared, she should be shocked. And she was, sort of, although not for reasons which would be approved by moralists.

“I quite envy her self-confidence,” Victoria said thoughtfully. “She must have had an exceedingly beautiful form, to appear so before 75 people.”

Emily considered the matter, looking left and right to take stock of the views of her dining companion. “Surely William is the best judge of that – of those of us present, that is. I believe, although I am not certain, Caro is one of the few women Henry does not have firsthand experience of. But I would say, not particularly, as feminine beauty is commonly rated. She was lean, certainly, but more like a boy, flat chested with very small breasts and –“

“Good God, Emily, please change the subject. Shall we discuss Russian diplomacy? Corsican diplomats?”

Frederic set down his wineglass firmly enough that a few drops of claret splashed on the snowy white table cloth. He looked at his young wife anxiously. Alexandrine Therese Sophie Julie Lamb, who became Baroness Beauvale when Victoria had invested Melbourne’s brother with the title, was just the Queen’s age, and desperately in love with her husband. Lord Melbourne quite liked the girl they all called Adine, as did Emily and Palmerston and he smiled sympathetically in her direction before turning his attention to his own wife.

“Count Carlo Andrea Pozzo di Borgo,” Lord Palmerston intoned. “The fellow had charm. All the ladies pursued him for dalliance and my Em was the one who landed him.” He beamed proudly at his wife, and she returned his admiring glaze.

Melbourne laid his hand over his wife’s and squeezed. Her smile was mysterious, her eyes lowered.

“I am not offended. You are all mine now and forever more. But I do envy your wife her assurance. She must have been entirely certain of the reception she would receive, and your regard.”

“Too certain of my regard,” he said briefly. “If you ladies would like to withdraw, Henry and I will join you shortly. Henry, I have an outstanding 1811 cognac which came from Napoleon’s cellars. You will see, it bears the imperial seal and is stamped ‘Cave of the Emperor, Palace of Fontainebleau, 1811.’”

“I have no reason to consider the little Emperor a connoisseur of fine spirits, but I’ll gladly offer my opinion. Let’s crack the bottle,” Palmerston said pleasantly.

When Victoria rose, everyone else did likewise. No protocol attended these family gatherings, at Victoria’s early insistence. Not that his rambunctious, good-natured siblings would have modified their conduct anyway, Melbourne thought, a small smile lightening his expression.

As he stood behind her chair, Melbourne rested his hand briefly on Victoria’s shoulder and was instantly rewarded by the galvanic response of his skin meeting hers. Heedless of the presence of others, he pressed his lips to the hollow at the base of her neck, then in the soft secret spot behind her ear. She lifted her hand to stroke his cheek.

Victoria was no longer entirely intimidated by the older woman. Emily had always been kind in her way, and _almost_ properly respectful, and Melbourne knew Victoria saw her many good qualities. She had never entirely lost her guardedness around her sister-in-law, however, and he attributed that to her sense that the former Lady Cowper, now Lady Palmerston, was so confident of her own place at the very pinnacle of English society she regarded the royal family as a superfluous, somewhat foolish provincial clan. He knew, if he had not entirely convinced his wife, that from love of him and their children, Emily had long since extended the mantle of her protection over Victoria and the children. Now and forever, she would be an ardent royalist first, a liberal Whig second.

**

Bottles were brought and a serving tray set out. Emily scrutinized the label of each, assessing the vintage, approving the champagne as properly chilled, and criticized the lack of sweetmeats, which were promptly procured. Victoria accepted a glass of champagne with thanks not entirely lacking in irony, and commended it when asked. Brocket Hall had been Emily’s childhood home and she had long acted as her brother’s hostess and chatelaine. It didn’t particularly bother Victoria that her own role as titular Lady Melbourne was so effortlessly usurped, or so she told herself. She conceded that she knew nothing about running a large house and Emily did a creditable job of consulting her tastes and opinions.

They were four, Victoria, Emily, Adine and Baroness Lehzen. The latter would have taken her meal in the nursery, except Melbourne had graciously insisted she join them at table. He consistently exerted himself to show her the deference he most sincerely felt, and over time his charm offensive seemed to have borne fruit. The dour German spinster had been known to unbend enough toward him to nearly smile on occasion. Victoria appreciated his effort, and her dear Lehzen’s incremental warming. She knew it was his way with the children more than his inimical charm, but she would never tell him that and spoil the effect.

“Now,” Emily patted the sofa cushion beside her. “Sit and let’s have a pleasant chat before the gentlemen join us.”

Victoria’s lips twitched in the hint of a smile. “So long as I am on my feet, may I pour?”

Adine took the tiniest amount of sweet wine, Lehzen a _digestif_ that Victoria knew was far stronger than she herself could swallow. Emily had her sherry in hand, and waved the champagne bottle over Victoria’s glass.

“First, please tell me you did not take offense. I think William protects your feelings quite unnecessarily. You and he have been married for – what? Four years? – and he still adores you. And you, him of course. But he had a long life before you met and it’s foolish to pretend otherwise. Moreover, Caro, for all her flaws, was a respectable match. It’s not like I bring up the other, more unpalatable scandals.”

Fred’s wife looked down at her lap, her expression pained. Lehzen looked away, her lips compressed tightly.

“No, Emily, I did not take offense. And I do not think you meant to offend. Perhaps you thought to… _unbalance_ me?” Victoria made sure her tone was light, teasing almost. “I think Adine and Lehzen might prefer a more elevated discourse at table.”

Like a true diplomat’s wife, Lady Beauvale offered another topic and soon Emily was opining on some of the improvements being made on Melbourne Hall, the official seat of the Viscount Lamb, located nearly two hundred miles north, past even Leeds, nearly to York. The property was entailed and would pass to Fred with the title someday – a day very far off, and one Victoria refused to contemplate – but because of the distance alone William had given it over to Fred and Adine as their principal residence away from London.

After a few minutes’ discourse, Baroness Lehzen rose to take her leave. When Victoria joined her, to hear the children’s prayers and kiss them goodnight, her young sister-in-law surprised her by asking shyly if she might accompany them.

Under Lehzen’s no-nonsense supervision the maids had both children bathed and in nightshirts. Liam read quietly, already in bed, while his sister, when they entered, had been pacing back and forth scowling. Victoria bit her lip so as not to smile, at the picture her youngest presented. The perfect image of angelic innocence, her long flowing curls neatly confined in a loose braid, the fine white lawn of her nightdress flowing about her as she moved so it might have been wings. _Really a very pretty child, despite those horrible cross-hatched scratches_ , Victoria thought. She had no great opinion of her own appearance, but seen in miniature, her daughter really was enchanting. Liam, on the other hand, was so completely his father all over, in the innate sweetness of his disposition as much as in appearance, that Victoria struggled to hide her _tendré_.

“Where’s my Papa?” The princess demanded, standing before the Queen with arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. “He is quite late.”

Lehzen tried in vain to shush her and encourage a proper form of address.

“Papa is talking with his guests. Now get into bed and I will hear your prayers,” Victoria said firmly. _Really, William must not indulge the child so_.

“No!” She looked to Lehzen helplessly, unsure what was expected of her to extract compliance from a recalcitrant three-year-old.

“Lady Elizabeth, will you allow me to read a page of your book? I have no little girls of my own to read to,” Adine said sweetly, sounding earnest and most sincerely imploring.

“You are my Aunt Adine,” the child explained. “I will let you listen, but I must read to Mama. Papa says so. He says she is quite sad when I refuse.” She reached for Victoria’s hand with her own small, dimpled fingers and led her to the big canopied bed. Once tucked in, Lily looked impossibly tiny against the great carved headboard, a near replica of the State bed at Buckingham House, save for the gilt and bright images depicting wild animals in amusing poses.

“Liam, come join us,” Victoria invited. To her relief, her son instantly complied, as he always did, beaming at his mother. She stroked his sandy brown curls, so like his father’s in the old paintings. The gentle, eager cast of his features, large soulful green eyes, generous rosebud mouth – her heart contracted painfully with love for this shy boy who would be King.

Baroness Lehzen stood back, beaming with satisfaction, as Lily’s sweet clear voice read the rhyme from her book. Then her brother turned the page in his own book and began reading aloud. When they had finished, each said the same prayers Victoria had recited as a child and she tucked them each in, kissing them and receiving their embrace.

“Mama, why did Papa not come tonight? He _always_ comes unless you have sent him away,” Lily demanded once more, her eyes growing sleepy.

“Lily! I do not send Papa away. Your father is a very important man and sometimes must travel for the good of the country. And Papa has guests, I told you that.”

“Does he like them more than me? His guests?”

“His guests are your Aunt Emily and your uncles. He loves them very much but you are his little girl,” Victoria explained, already growing weary.

“Papa loves me more than _anyone_ ,” Lily proclaimed emphatically.

“Papa loves you more than any other little girls,” Victoria corrected. “As he loves your brother.”

“And you? Does Papa love you?” The little voice now sounded querulous.

“Yes, I believe he does. I am his wife.”

“He loves me more. He loves me more than he loves you!” Victoria was about to respond, and saw both Adine and Lehzen watching her. She knew herself to have a quick temper and really, how ridiculous to have such a debate with a child, hardly more than an infant. All the same, she felt a surge of resentful anger. _If he did not pander to her so, she would not have such notions!_ Victoria thought crossly.

“Elizabeth, say goodnight to your mother and your aunt,” Lehzen said firmly. Victoria remembered that voice from her own childhood. Dear Lehzen had never shown anger, certainly had never done anything to intimidate her, yet she had known when defiance was futile. Lily appeared to know as well. She sighed deeply and turned over. Then, thinking better of it, she turned back and lifted her chubby arms.

“Good night, Mama. I suppose I will hug you.”

**

When they returned to the drawing room all three men were deep in conversation, and Emily in their midst. They all stopped talking when Victoria and Adine entered.

“Victoria, dearest Adine, you find us involved in a family discussion. We can grow quite heated. If it makes you uncomfortable or, more probably, if you find us desperately unruly, you may retire to the library. We will join you later.”

Lady Beauvale, a sweet retiring girl, Victoria thought, smiled hesitantly and accepted the suggestion with alacrity. “Are you coming, ma’am?” She asked Victoria.

“I think not, but you go ahead. I believe there are new periodicals in there to amuse you.” Victoria moved forward with determination, joining them where they stood in a half-circle around the writing table. Victoria saw a leather portfolio, such as lawyers and her ministers carried, open and papers spilling out.

“Dear, don’t you think you’d prefer to join Adine?” Emily asked once more. Victoria’s eyes flashed a clear warning her patience was at an end.

“No, I do not think that, Emily. But thank you for your consideration.” Her voice was tart. Melbourne moved to stand beside her, hands clasped behind his back.

“William, I think we should resolve this before –“

“Emily!” It was her own husband who interjected. “Victoria should, nay, must be part of this discussion. If anyone has no immediate concern in this matter, it is you, I daresay. Now be a good girl and sit down.”

Neither Victoria nor Melbourne had ever heard Palmerston address his wife so firmly. He was the most aggressive, the boldest of men in the public sphere, but before his wife he had no more courage than any husband with a spirited spouse.

“The cat’s out of the bag now, William. Let’s get on with it. What have you told her?” Palmerston resumed control of the conversation, as was his wont. He was a handsome blond man in late middle age, only five years separating him from Melbourne in age. Melbourne resisted the urge to huff a frustrated sigh. He knew himself to be no match for his old friend’s dynamism and sheer force of character. _And that is how we find ourselves in this mess_.

“We could be here until dawn and not finish covering the entire backstory. The Oriental Crisis had its roots farther back in time than any of our tenure. What matters is what we did, or didn’t do, in ’38 and ’39. And 1840.”

“First – please help me understand – is this all history? Tell me we are no longer involved _in any way_ , no matter how obliquely, in opium. Producing, transporting, selling, transferring – do not engage in semantics please.” Victoria looked directly at Lord Palmerston. Emily bristled and started to respond, until her husband tapped her on the shoulder and indicated with a jerk of his chin she was to sit back down.

“Let’s all be seated, for Heaven’s sake,” Fred said soothingly. “I’ll pour for us. Victoria, what will you have?”

“It is not history, ma’am. The trade continues. We do not sell directly. The East India Company handles all such transactions on the Indian continent and they, not we, deal with independent trading houses to bring the stuff into Singapore and Hong Kong. It is there transferred to ships flying the flags of other nations, no British, and – well, I have no firsthand knowledge of distribution in the ports, but I do know that only a few select trading houses have the connections necessary to deliver it to the tongs, the associations which handle things on the mainland. That is not our concern. But in a nutshell, yes, we – the British government – reaps huge rewards in the form of taxes and licenses, and the Company makes its fortune on the supply end. It’s grown for next to nothing in one Indian province in the northeast and funds the entire Company. Without the bullion paid for opium, there would be no navy – at least not the strongest sea power the world has ever known – and no British Empire.”

Melbourne permitted Palmerston to continue, so long as he did not prevaricate. Victoria sat calmly, her carriage erect, her pose suggestive of restrained power and keenly focused intelligence. He was aware of feeling immense pride in her, not only as his wife, but as symbolic of the mark he would leave. Serving, guiding, helping form her into the monarch she became was the most glorious achievement of his career. Loving her was the most glorious achievement of his life.

Lord Palmerston sketched out the parameters of the situation as he had found it when he became Foreign Secretary, and the hand he’d taken in guiding the crisis to a successful conclusion. Where he grew vague, to Melbourne’s hearing, was in the details of precisely _how_ he’d resolved it.

“’Reparations’, Lord Palmerston? How much and for what?” Victoria asked sharply, interrupting his narrative.

“Your Majesty was told at the time, for losses sustained when our merchants were forced to surrender their goods and possessions in Canton. When Elliot worked out the agreement by which we could all retreat and regroup. The bill was passed by both Houses.”

“How much?” She pressed.

“Six million, give or take,” Palmerston grumbled. “Your Majesty agreed to it at the time. He –“ his head jerked toward Melbourne, “-brought it to you for ratification. Your Majesty addressed the House of Lords in January of 1840 in support of our interests, and expressed concern that the rights of your subjects were being abrogated by the Chinese government.”

“And was I aware that the _goods_ we were paying reparations for, consisted of how many tons of _opium_? Nothing else, opium. That _is_ correct?”

Palmerston stretched out his long legs, refusing to be intimidated. He smiled winsomely at the Queen he used to ride with when she was a mere girl, new and untried. Melbourne saw him try his charm, and had to suppress a smile. His _Gloriana_ was no gullible girl to be sidetracked by a good-looking man flirting so openly out of sheer desperation.

“That is correct, ma’am. And whether or not you were aware, I cannot say. If you’ll recall, your Prime Minister was by then meeting with you exclusively, six or eight hours a day. I had not the privilege or the duty of enlightening you on the affairs of Lord Melbourne’s government.”

Victoria gazed at him levelly, displaying neither anger nor dismay. She appeared to be thinking, calculating even.

“So here we are then. There is a letter, I believe? One which was sent to me by diplomatic pouch, yet which I never received. May I see it now?”

Melbourne rose and went to the writing desk. From a packet of papers he extracted one, more ornately drawn than the rest, on thick vellum bearing the crest of another empire. He handed it to Victoria, allowing his fingers to brush against hers.

She read it over quickly and laid it aside with a gesture of dismissal.

“Well. I will reserve the right to express an opinion on our involvement in the opium trade. That is a matter most appropriately discussed with my current head of government, Sir Robert. As to the past – I will undoubtedly have many more questions as I process this information and consider the circumstances more carefully. But for now, I think we need only focus on how best to address past errors and omissions to preserve the dignity of the Crown and the integrity of Lord Melbourne’s ministry.”

Victoria smiled brightly at the family members gathered around her. 

“Unless anyone has anything else essential to add tonight, perhaps we should defer further discussion and end this evening on a more pleasant note.”

Melbourne saw with great pride how awestruck Palmerston looked, how even Emily appeared spellbound by Victoria’s self-possession and command of the situation. Fred, sitting quietly throughout, was courtier enough to conceal any surprise he might have felt at his young sovereign’s air of quiet competence.

Emily, true to form, recovered herself first and offered a flippant observation on the marriage of a certain prominent family known to them all. Her husband contributed a salty anecdote regarding the lady in that pairing, and they were off and running, chattering as animatedly about inconsequential as any family whose affairs were not so closely intertwined with that of a nation.

**

“Will you dispense with your maid, Mrs. Melbourne?” Lord Melbourne followed his wife into her boudoir, already stripping off his jacket so he stood in white embroidered waistcoat.

“As pleasant as that sounds, Lord M, I think not. Skerrett fusses so when my gowns are left in a puddle to gather dust and wrinkles.” But she stood closely in front of him, undoing his pearl buttons and slipping the waistcoat from his shoulders.

“Have I ever told you how very attractive you are in your shirts?” Melbourne looked down from his greater height, appreciating the ring of authentic admiration in her voice. _How can she so effortlessly go from_ that – _a queen with full command of her own authority, easily wearing the mantle of great responsibility and exercising her power without hesitation – to this, a beautiful girl looking up at me so adoringly?_ He marveled, not for the first time, at the turn of his fate long after he’d relinquished all hope for happiness.

“I don’t recall at the moment, so please, feel free to tell me again any time it strikes your fancy.”

She laughed softly and laid both palms on his chest to push herself back.

“I will ring for Miss Skerrett now. I am quite eager to retire to bed.” Victoria moved away, to proceed as she said, then paused, looking over her shoulder.

“If you promise to return promptly, you might look in on the children. Your daughter was exceedingly put out that you did not attend her before bedtime.”

Melbourne studied her face, looking for any hint of petulance or rebuke. Reassured, he kissed her lightly.

“I will do that, only to give you time to prepare for bed. My love….” He had picked up her hands and kissed the back of each finger. “Mrs. Melbourne.”


	16. Chapter 16

When Lord Melbourne awoke from fitful sleep he realized immediately that Victoria was not in the bed. Rather, his little daughter lay on her side, curled up with thumb in her mouth, pudgy fist curled protectively around it.

He recalled Lehzen tapping at the door to summon them, Lily inconsolable, shrieking until she lapsed into great ragged breaths which shook her small shoulders. He was unaccustomed to seeing the indomitable tot in such a state – while her tantrums were legendary, she was a happy child, easily pleased and had seemed to fear nothing.

She clung to him tightly with arms and legs, so tightly that he would not have been able to set her down if he had tried. But he didn’t try. Seeing her state, and the normally serene Baroness Lehzen equally unsettled, Melbourne had taken her with him back to their chamber and placed her in bed beside her mother, soothing her with nonsensical patter which made her focus on something beyond the night terror which still had firm hold.

Victoria sat up, looking from father to daughter, her own expression some mixture of annoyance and concern. Melbourne was far better at understanding his daughter’s sometimes babyish speech – had a genius for it, so Victoria commented wryly on several occasions – and what he gleaned when her sobs had faded to intermittent gasps touched his heart. Seemingly, Lily’s fear was not for herself but for him, thus the reason why she called most particularly for her mother. _I don’t want another papa. Mama, do not let him go away._ When he interpreted her panicky pleas, Victoria responded with what was, for her, a great deal of patience.

Victoria looked at her husband helplessly. “I don’t understand. What is she saying? What does she want?”

Lord Melbourne hesitated momentarily, and his daughter’s pleas immediately filled the void.

“You are the Queen. You must _make_ our Papa stay. I will –” the child’s breath hitched. “I will try very hard to be good if you promise our papa will not go away.” Victoria agreed instantly, and to Melbourne’s relief rigidity slowly leaked out of the small body. When he looked down again she had curled up, most uncharacteristically, against her mother. He was almost – _almost –_ disappointed that it was not him to whom she turned, but he was too touched by the sight to much mind.

He sat in the darkness while a summer storm raged outside, unable, unwilling, to sleep. Melbourne had understood far more of his daughter’s hysterical cries than her mother, and as much as he wanted to dismiss the entire episode as simply a child’s nightmares, perhaps brought on by the thunder and lightning outside her window, he was chilled.

His own dreams, pushed far back beyond waking recollection, had a theme in common, finding himself in another world which exactly resembled this one in all but circumstance. A _parallel_ world, he thought – there was a Queen and she was Victoria, he was Melbourne, former First Lord, and Brocket Hall was his home. But in that world, he had retreated from the world, isolated, desolate, heart-broken, for _she_ was not his and not even their friendship remained. She had moved on, moved along in her life. There was an Albert and he was her husband. He had not died in that world, and neither had he abdicated a husband’s role. She had children but not _his_ children and the Queen the public knew was an unsmiling woman old before her time. There was no joy in that world, no lightness and life. All was bleak and grey.

Lily’s terror reminded him so very much of his own, when he fought his way out of the fog and mist into this sun-drenched, happy reality. Was it _that_ world, _that_ father, _that_ mother Lily had glimpsed?

**

Victoria was in the breakfast room, chatting and laughing with her sisters-in-law, looking over the top of her newspapers. Emily was arranging cut flowers in a line of ornate Chinese porcelain vases, while Adine handed her each new stem and Liam carefully wielded garden shears, cutting where his aunt indicated. Lily, having been handed over to her governess so her father could bathe and dress, was a pretty miniature of her mother and aunts, all of them wearing light summer frocks in pastel shades, straw bonnets laid aside and hair loose on their shoulders. Outside the day was dark, rain falling in sheets and thunder cracking so loudly it shook the windowpanes. Melbourne leaned against the wall beside the doorway, very much enjoying the pleasant tableau before him and the cozy sense of family it presented. Only the lure of fresh coffee prompted him to announce himself and disturb the ladies.

He went to greet his wife, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips as he bent a knee before her. She caught his hand in hers and pressed it to her lips in turn.

“Lord M, you don’t have to do that,” she admonished in a low voice, holding his hand against her face.

“But I like doing it…ma’am,” Melbourne’s green eyes were teasing.

“Be seated, please. I will get your coffee. Do you want toast? Fruit?” Victoria was already on her feet. Melbourne allowed it because it pleased her to wait on him, playing at being an ordinary wife.

She set a mug of strong brew down in front of him. “You look especially fine today. What is the occasion?” Melbourne was wearing a new waistcoat, designs picked out in peacock shades of iridescent blue and green and gold, and a green silk cravat to match.

“Do you like it? Being in the presence of Her Majesty is occasion enough to warrant indulgence.” Melbourne tasted his coffee with some trepidation – getting an adequate brew from the kitchens at Buckingham and Windsor was a futile endeavor, so he had resorted to ordering a grinder and press and taught his valet to perform the task as part of their morning routine – and was rewarded by exactly the right acidity level. He cocked an eyebrow, questioning.

“I made it. I asked Baines to teach me and ordered an apparatus sent here like the one he uses. Do you truly like it?” Melbourne felt a lump in his throat, and tears threaten to appear, at her absurd, wonderful gesture, and her clear eagerness to hear his praise. _So much more than mere coffee_ , he thought, _although good coffee is of the utmost importance._ He smirked to hide his own emotional reaction.

“Very resourceful, ma’am. It’s perfect, just as it should be.” He took one more sip and set the cup down, then drew her onto his lap, careless of the presence of others. “Have I told you, you are a wonder?”

“It turns out I’m quite inept at flower arranging,” Victoria laughed. She rose from her husband’s lap and returned to her place at the table, where she began neatly folding the newspapers which followed her wherever she travelled.

“Where are Fred and Henry?” Melbourne asked next. “We must begin our deep dive into the matters touched upon last night, and I would like to go through as much of the material as possible with you alone first.” He deliberately spoke in a low, almost intimate tone and Victoria responded.

Melbourne was determined to begin the process of unraveling what could be managed, of learning now what he should have known then and doing so with the Queen at his side. She had been a remarkable young woman then, even more so now, and Melbourne knew he had done her a grave injustice in not more closely scrutinizing those policies pursued in both their names.

"I believe they went out riding despite the rain. Fred had some notion of looking at the second storey of the stables, where we house the Cavalry officers who accompany us right now." Victoria deliberately spoke in a normal conversational voice, taking up her stack of newspapers and periodicals. “William, will you please spare me some time and use of your library? There are some things I must prepare answers for, before I return and meet with Peel.”

Melbourne stood back and permitted the Queen to exit before him. As he waited he was nearly bowled over by a sudden collision to the back of his knees. When he looked down he saw Princess Elizabeth clutching him about the legs, staring up at him imperiously.

“You did not say good morning to me, Papa,” she reprimanded. Melbourne was pleased to see that the resilience of childhood had served her well. Her blue eyes were wide and shining with energetic affection and all trace of the night’s emotional storm had passed. Her maids had dressed her in a small replica of her mother’s floral gown and her dark curls had been confined behind a wide satin ribbon.

“You look very pretty today, Your Highness,” he admired, picking her up so he could kiss her. “And now I must go to Mama and you will stay with your aunts until Baroness Lehzen comes for you. It is raining too hard for you and your brother to venture out of doors, but I think Emily must remember some of the games we played on rainy days.”

His sister came forward, holding out her arms. “Elizabeth, come to me please,” she said briskly. Mother and grandmother, she was familiar with the wiles of little girls. Lily started to make a keening low-pitched voice, precursor to loud protest.

“Elizabeth, do not whine. Gentlemen do not appreciate females who whine and your father is a gentleman. Do you wish to please him or make him wish he had another little girl?”

Lily’s eyes widened with shock and outrage at the thought, and Melbourne likewise frowned at his sister. “Emily – that is not –“

“Oh, William, I have raised my own children. This one is not a delicate little blossom who will wilt at the least censure.”

“Nevertheless – Lily, Emily is being very silly because she knows there is only one little girl I want. But I also want you to go nicely with your aunt now, and mind the Baroness when she comes for you. And you are going to try to be good, aren’t you?” He kissed her downy velvet cheek once, twice, three times, then impulsively pressed his own cheek against her silky curls.

“I love you, my sweet girl,” he whispered.

“More than anyone?” She demanded, in her clear piping voice.

“More than any other little girl,” Melbourne laughed.

“More than Mama?” Lily persisted, not to be put off.

“More than any other little girl,” her father repeated firmly. “And I love your Mama more than any other big girl. Now go to your aunt and do not be saucy.”

**

Victoria sat in a chair she had pulled up to the front of his desk, as though she were the client and he the attorney. The thick leather portfolio lay before her, the strings still neatly tied.

“There is a lot of material in there, and I haven’t seen it all myself yet. Where do you want to begin?” Melbourne was aware of a sudden feeling of heaviness, sure that the buoyant good cheer and family feeling would soon be dissipated.

“Where do you want to begin? Lord M, I don’t pretend to understand all or even most of this entire situation. Please begin where you think you should. As far as I am able to ascertain, there are things I don’t know and things you don’t – or didn’t – know about oriental affairs. And that –“ she indicated the portfolio. “Was given to you by a courier or representative of a powerful banking family. To…to warn us? To control us? If they are so all-powerful, surely they know there is precious little the Queen of a constitutional monarchy can do to influence the financial affairs of a nation. Or a former Prime Minister who happens to be married to that Queen.”

Melbourne rubbed a finger over his brow, always a gesture which indicated he was treading carefully.

“I didn’t do everything I should have to ensure that affairs were conducted honorably – well, there is precious little honor in government, but…you will think worse of me before we are done.”

Victoria’s own brows flew together and her eyes narrowed. She rose and walked around the desk to stand beside him.

“William. I am the Queen and you were my Prime Minister. I love you, I adore you, and nothing will change that. I also admire you greatly, and nothing will change _that_. I consider you the wisest, most learned man I have ever had the privilege of knowing. If there’s a problem which needs solving we will solve it together. You of all people know I am willing to benefit from advice but _I am never led_. That exonerates you from blame. Now…please, tell me you understand that you do not bear the entire burden of this or anything else. We will do this together.”

Melbourne’s heart soared at her words, and the clear, firm belief in her eyes. Belief in him, belief in herself and the strength and unity of _them_. He only wished he was worthy of the faith she had in him. More precious, was her assurance that he did not stand alone in facing this – or any other – issue. That had not been the case since the earliest days of his first marriage, when Caro had so proudly sat up with him, writing and rewriting his first speech to the House, sharing his hopes and aspirations. But that was an unfair comparison, he knew, for Caro had been a deeply troubled, flawed young woman, incapable of true partnership. Victoria - _Victoria,_ he said the name in his mind with as much reverence as the first time he uttered it – was equally young but she was a strong, intelligent, steady woman, not flighty. He could – it was a novel thought, one which he wasn’t quite sure how to process, turning it over in his mind – lean on her sometimes, he did not always have to be strong for both of them.

He laid out the papers in stacks, sorting as he went, letters in one stack, copies of legal documents and decrees in another, and then refining by date. Beside him Victoria worked diligently, reading what he handed her, skimming for the most part to gain at least some indication of the matter contained therein.

Melbourne described to her what he knew of the trade, from long before the beginning of his Ministry, the insidious means by which the East India Company, the colonies, the navy and ultimately the country as a whole became as addicted to the money opium brought, as the Chinese population was to opium itself. Statistics rolled off his tongue, gleaned only recently, but numbers he should have made it his business to know a decade before. A quarter of Chinese males addicted to the drug, English addicted to the tea China produced in abundance. China’s decision to no longer trade in tea and silk, goods for goods, but demanding silver bullion from the Crown.

The entire budget of the Government threatened by such an outlay of cash. In the earliest years of the 19th century, a small group of intrepid traders outfitted ships with which they could navigate the shoals and shallow waters of Canton harbor and making the contacts there who could offload abundant Indian-grown opium in return for hard cash, cash which was returned to the Treasury to offset that which was paid to China for legitimate export goods.

Opium offset, then balanced then wildly overbalance, so much bullion was flowing through the traders’ hands and into British coffers that merchant princes were made who effectively ruled the world. And behind them, the financiers, the bankers, because none of this vast, unimaginable fortune was literally, physically transferred from the East to English shores. Instead, bank transfers, a convoluted means by which the wealth of nations was moved back and forth and only the bankers knew exactly how.

And that was only the piece which most closely threatened the integrity of the Melbourne government. There was more, so much more, contained in the Rothschild papers. Her uncle fully a pawn of the bankers, Leopold used to interfere by proxy in the affairs of sovereign nations, France, Spain, Austria, Russian…England. Belgium was a poor country and Leopold an expensive king. The bankers never said no, never asked for collateral, never called in their notes, until the amount he owed was so astronomical Victoria could only stare in shock, her jaw dropping at the sum he showed her.

They had their fingerprints all over the royal houses of Europe. Her own half-brother, receiving an unsecured loan for £37,000 on a visit to London. Louis-Phillipe, placed on the throne by Rothschild backing and now long past his useful life – _no, darling, an expression only. These people do not engage in violence, they have no need to dirty their hands so. Merely, remove a king from his throne and put another in his place. Pension him off and put him out to pasture. Find a new patsy to serve in his place._

“What do they want? What is the point of it all?” Victoria looked at him inquisitively, her expression puzzled.

Melbourne shrugged. “Influence. Power. Money, and more money. But ultimately, I think, power. There is only so much gold any one man, family, bank, business…nation can accumulate before it becomes meaningless, only a way of keeping score. And that’s only a guess. I don’t really know. I think they reached out to me because they lack any more viable puppets. Leopold is irrelevant, Louis-Phillipe finished. Peel far too moral to be susceptible, and the Tories’ days are numbered. Russell is an impassioned fool. Wellington, the best amongst us, the best of a generation, took their money. I assume because like most honorable men, he reckoned as long as there was no clear pro quid pro there was no harm done.”

“And you?” Victoria’s voice was gentle, and she laid a soft hand over his, where they were clasped before him. He laughed, and it was a strangely joyful, free sound, to his own ears.

“No, my darling, not once. They never approached me, never offered, or I’m sure I would have collected my stipend with the rest. To promote goodwill, show their support, whatever they tell one. I can only assume it’s because I was deemed too incompetent to be worth the investment.” He turned his hands up, a gesture of openness that came without thought, and he glanced down at his own palms with a look of mild surprise.

“I’ve never been especially expensive. I don’t gamble much. Books are my only real vice. And – women. You know I provide Lady Branden’s support, and – “ Melbourne was reluctant to speak the other one’s name.

“Mrs. Norton,” Victoria supplied, grimacing, but rather than pull away she drew nearer to him.

“Caro was costly to keep, but never so it exceeded my income. There were others over the years, whom I felt honor-bound to care for after our association ended. I’m afraid I’m somewhat of a fool in that regard.” He glanced up, suddenly worried she might misread him. “No more. You know that?”

Victoria showed him an oddly mature expression, both pained and patient. “You are an honorable man, William Lamb. As little as I like the fact of your _pensioners_ I understand that you think it’s the right thing to do. I can’t wish you any different – any less – than you are.”

“I suspect now – I wondered at the time – whether my financial embarrassments shortly after our marriage, were a nascent attempt by the London influence brokers to put pressure on me. Newly married to a Queen Regnant, one of the wealthiest and most powerful women in the world – even in our constitutional monarchy, never underestimate the power you hold, my love – yet suddenly investments went bad, stocks became worthless, loans were called in, even the mortgages on Brocket Hall threatened – it wasn’t a huge sum, but Albert’s intervention and his timely loan saved me from having to go to the City and beg for restructuring of my affairs. That may have been when they planned to add me to their portfolio.”

“And Henry? Your brother? Anyone else close to us?”

“Their business is their own but in short, Henry, no. His lapses in judgement – withholding the Emperor’s letter, devising the strategy by which we evaded the Emperor’s demands and then sent in a military force which established naval authority over the entire Gulf, so we effectively controlled every port in the East – can be attributed to an excess of…zeal. Ambition, but not in the ordinary sense. I truly don’t think Henry acts as he does out of selfish motives. He’s just so damned convinced he knows better than anyone else. I should wish I knew more about any one thing than he thinks he knows about everything. But he is a good Englishman, and loyal to the Crown above all. He wasn’t even a Whig to start – a good Conservative until I did my part to bring him over.”

“And your brother?” Melbourne saw her painstakingly reasoning her way through the maze of convoluted facts, complex geopolitical issues he barely understood in their most basic outline.

“Fred has had a close relationship with Nathan Rothschild for years. So close they saw each other on a near-daily basis when he was in Paris, a relationship which extended to his time in Vienna. He wasn’t the only one – Talleyrand, Esterhazy and Bulow when they were stationed in London. In Vienna, Salomon enjoyed direct access to Metternich and relayed copies of letters back and forth. We have here copies of letters from Nathan to Fred, bluntly directing him how to proceed.” Melbourne picked out one from the pile. “Amschel urges Nathan to ‘have the British minister Frederick Lamb egged on again to support the Jewish cause.’ None of this points to any egregious action by Fred or, for that matter, by the Rothschilds themselves. Their overriding goal seems to have been peace, because war is inimical to the making of money as well as damned likely to bring down the wrath of host nations on their own Jewish community. Nonetheless, my brother was in a damned unethical position, acting as the agent of foreign interests, conveying confidential information and doing their bidding. He will decline the post he is to be offered in Paris. It’s time he retired to Melbourne Hall.”

Melbourne heaved a great sigh, relieved that the worst of it was out. As unsavory a mess as it all was, he could not identify a particular forward risk to simply cleaning up what he could and leaving the rest to die in the ash heap of history. Victoria’s idealism would be struck harshly, he thought, and her legacy – the way in which history would view her reign, the verdict of generations to come on their forebears’ direct involvement in the sale of a dangerously addictive substance, making itself rich on the misery of others. But he couldn’t think of that now.

He was so lost in thought that when Victoria rose suddenly, he was startled. He watched her trim, graceful figure as she moved across the room, her back to him. Posture impeccable, shoulders straight, head unbowed. Long elegant neck, that delectable little heart-shaped face… _My darling girl, my Victoria._

She poured from a pitcher of water, chilled so that condensation beaded on the decanter, and brought him the glass. He only then realized he had talked so much for so long his throat was quite parched. _Even in that, she knows me better than I know myself,_ he marveled.

With her customary neat, precise movements Victoria carefully aligned the edges of the papers spread out before them. Melbourne watched her hands, fascinated by their working, while she replaced each stack of papers in the portfolio once more. She completed the task by tying a bow in the ribbon which fastened the flap closed. Then she sat back, turning toward him and drawing one leg up under her, in the relaxed position she frequently adopted when they were alone and there was no need for decorum.

“Now I know the whole, at least in broad terms. I’m afraid I couldn’t dig deeper, lest I get lost in the weeds.” Her pretty mouth twisted in a small smile, amused at her own mixed metaphor. Melbourne thought how very much he wanted to kiss that mouth.

“What?” She laughed. “I must focus on the big picture. Oh, you _know_ what I mean, don’t tease me.”

“So, what comes next? What will you do? What do you want me to do? Continue digging? Bury the whole thing – back down in those _weeds_ , you know – and forget we ever got those damned documents? They’re meant as a warning, no matter how graciously delivered.”

“When we return – and I think we must do so tomorrow, since it is far too wet to travel today – I will meet with Peel and ask him to ascertain whether and how deeply we are involved in the opium trade now. Also, I have some questions I should have asked much sooner about the precise nature of the East India Company. I know they have their own regiments, their own armies in the east, and that makes them nearly as powerful as a sovereign nation, but I want to understand more completely _why_ and _how_ it is that a privately held company can set itself up to be a rival of the government.”

“Not a rival, precisely, ma’am, it’s more complicated than that,” Melbourne gently corrected her. Outside the library windows, he saw steam rising from the flagstones. The storm had stopped and the sun was shining through a break in the clouds. It would be another hot day after all.

“Well…then you see, I have much to learn. I would like Peel to apprise me of the current status and you to explain the history. But not now.” She held up her hand in a stop gesture, quite authoritatively, before realizing what she had done. Melbourne grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him.

“All of the above, ma’am, but have we covered enough ground for today?” He was, he realized, both utterly relieved and profoundly proud of this amazing creature in his arms.

She turned her face up to his, suddenly a mere girl again, his girl, his beautiful, yielding and very desirable wife. Melbourne kissed her, cupping her face in his hand and tasting her mouth with exquisite gentleness. _So soft, so pliant, so entirely mine_. He felt her shiver a little, from the pleasure of his lips on hers, and heard her sigh.

He kissed her again, for far longer this time, drinking in her essence, her sweet breath, her youth, her vigor, as she gave herself over entirely to him.

They were still in one another’s arms, kissing, embracing, pausing only to murmur nonsense, exchange silly whispers, when the others came in.

“We’ve been down to the stables, William. I think it will make a fine lodge. Your hunting box in the Cotswolds will have nothing on this after I tell you what I have in mind.” Fred came in, followed closely by Henry Temple. Their wives followed.

“Luncheon is laid out. Are you two going to be at each other all day, or shall we eat? I propose we plan a trip to Brighton. I have a great desire to see the Pavilion since Nash has been at it. Emily wants to bring the children and grandchildren down to the sea and Adine has a great desire to see the Royal Pavilion. If we plan on spending – say, July? – there it will give you time to arrange some fitting entertainment. Invite Peel and his wife down, and some of those grim fellows he surrounds himself with. Overawe them with majesty, Majesty…”

Lord Palmerston’s enthusiasm for the proposed holiday was equaled by that of his wife, and even Lady Beauvale added her shy encouragement. Victoria, quite overwhelmed, could only laughingly accede. She had not seen her uncle’s folly since she was quite young – Mama had taken her there as a young girl of sixteen, the trip which ended in near-disaster when the heiress presumptive fell deathly ill with fever – and the children had never seen such unimaginable wonders as could be found in the ridiculous glory of the Prince Regent’s summer retreat.

Companionably, the three couples adjourned to the dining room where cold meats, cheeses, sweets and lemonade had been laid out, along with fruit ices.

Victoria stood back, allowing her guests to proceed her, and felt a pair of strong hands on her waist. Lord Melbourne pulled her back, out of sight of the others but in full view of the housemaids working nearby, and pinned her against the wall. He hungrily nibbled on the soft skin of her neck, tickling her with the tip of his tongue, sucking on her throat just under her ear until she quite feared she would be left with an unmistakable mark. Laughing, she tried to push him away.

“What on earth has gotten into you, Lord M?” She whispered in mock outrage. He only laughed as he released her.

“You, Mrs. Melbourne. Have I told you today that I love you? And that I could spend every day for the next thousand years adoring you and it would not be enough?"


	17. Chapter 17

“What do you think, Harriet? Is it too daring?” Victoria pivoted in a circle, arms akimbo, showing off a diaphanous costume designed to resemble that of a Turkish _houri_. Rather, as the Sultana in an Eastern harem might look if she were Queen of England and Supreme Head of the Anglican Church in the Year of Our Lord 1845. Seamstresses working under the direction of a French modiste had concocted a vision of brilliant blue-green chiffon augmented with thick gold brocade and embellished by hundreds of reflective gold coins and bells which flashed and jingled musically with each movement. In fact, the effect was entirely risqué, yet in fact was completely modest.

The Court would be at Windsor another fortnight, until Her Majesty prorogued Parliament. Then they would travel en masse to Brighton, to the grand Pavilion there, a Royal residence so completely outlandish it felt like a trip to a foreign country. Victoria had attended her uncle there once, when she was quite young, and remembered only a sense of wonder and awe. She had been quite overwhelmed by it all, not allowed to attend the evening entertainments and had gotten so very ill that the entire memory had the unreal quality of a fever dream.

Lord Melbourne’s niece Lady Jocelyn was overseeing the arrangements for a costume ball to be held at Brighton. She was ably assisted by Melbourne’s dear friend Emily Eden, who had traveled in the East and was advising to ensure some authenticity would attend the great fête. Victoria, no great party-giver in general, had been caught up in the spirit of the fantastical which would attend any ball held at the Royal Pavilion and eagerly approved the various entertainments proposed.

Lady Jocelyn’s children frequently lived at Court with their mother during her shifts as Lady-in-Waiting and it gave Victoria special satisfaction to see her own daughter growing up with these cousins from her Lamb family. Lady Vicky – Victoria Alexandrina Elizabeth – was just a year older than the Princess Elizabeth and Lady Alice a scant three months younger, so they made natural companions. Vicky’s own assertive nature and Alice’s rambunctiousness were more than a match for Lily's tempestuousness, and all three were alike in their bold fearlessness and the saucy self-confidence with which they moved through their world.  

Harriet Sutherland-Leveson-Gower, Duchess of Sutherland was no longer Mistress of the Robes – a Tory lady had held that signal honor since Robert Peel formed a government – but Victoria insisted on maintaining their friendship. Her fondness had cooled considerably after Harriet so publicly took Caroline Norton under her wing, but after the last fiasco Harriet’s genuine contrition had persuaded Victoria to resume the connection.

Harriet, Fanny Jocelyn, Lady Canning and Victoria’s other attendants closely examined their Queen as the seamstresses sat back on their haunches, ready to pin and adjust once more.

“It is quite proper. Everything that should be covered, is,” Harriet decreed, arbiter of fashion.

“But might it be considered scandalous nonetheless? A _harem_ costume?” Charlotte Canning asked hesitantly.

“If Miss Eden approves it – and she has designed the theme for the entire ball – then I think no one with any pretension to taste can criticize,” Lady Jocelyn opined.

“Mine is entirely embroidered. I wish I had Your Majesty’s figure but at my age the best I can hope for is maximum concealment.” Lady Jocelyn’s mother entered the salon between her husband and brother.

“Lord M? What do you think?” Victoria pirouetted, causing the tiny bells and mirrors to sway and jingle prettily.

The Viscount Melbourne gracefully dipped to one knee and lifted her hand to his lips. Victoria had suggested often such formal genuflection was not necessary for the consort of the Queen – or for her friend and minister, previously – yet he continued to practice the archaic salutation. Victoria privately considered it an appealing reminder of their very first meeting, a ritual which sustained the magic between them.

As he so often did, and had since those early days when they were all companions together, Lord Palmerston likewise bowed deeply over his sister-in-law’s hand. Emily made a vague gesture which might have been a curtsy, and instead exercised a sister’s prerogative to kiss the air beside her cheek.

“I think you look lovely, Your Majesty,” Lord Melbourne murmured, his lips forming a small smile. “I also think I’ll look quite foolish beside you.”

“Nonsense, William. You and Henry are both dressing as Sultans and the Turkish pantaloons and long coats are quite becoming.”

“May we abandon the need to shave, for authenticity’s sake, Emily?  Abdulmejid had quite the impressive mustaches when I met him.”

“No!” Victoria and Emily demurred in unison.

Emily went to the three little girls, sitting in unusual silence, seemingly spellbound by the display. “Fanny, are you taking the children to Brighton with you?”

“Yes, Mama. Baby has gone ahead with Nurse and our servants. The girls travel with Robert and me.”

Emily stared at the three little misses lined up on a sofa.

“Victoria, why don’t you send Lady Elizabeth with Fanny? Look at the three of them – like peas in a pod. It will do her no harm to be apart from you.” Victoria looked to Melbourne, understanding it was him, rather than herself, Emily referred to. As close as they all were, they still paid lip service to Albert’s paternity, before others such as the seamstresses and even Lady Canning, so Emily could hardly say ‘father’ aloud. Yet everyone knew of the Princess’s attachment to Lord Melbourne.

Lord Melbourne opened his mouth as if to speak – to protest, Victoria felt certain. Instead he merely replied, “Whatever you think best, ma’am. The children are your province.”

Victoria was torn, on the one hand agreeing with Emily that anything which discouraged her small daughter’s dependence would be welcome – as would a respite from the little girl’s incessant demands – while on the other not wishing to be the one who made such a decision.

Emily pretended she had heard assent to her plan, and clapped her hands briskly.

“Who wants to ride with John Coachman on the box from the stables?” She asked brightly, offering a rare treat most often reserved for boys. All three little girls clamored for the promised treat, and Lady Palmerston led them out like a patrician Pied Piper.

Victoria glanced at her reflection once more in the pier glass, suddenly impatient and wanting the fitting to end.

“Will you wait for me? I must be unpinned, and will be out as soon as I can.” She asked her husband quietly, picking up one of the hands he held clasped before him. Melbourne smiled at her brightly and, she suspected, falsely, covering his own unease.

**

Once more attired in a dark blue silk day dress, Victoria dismissed the coterie of dressers, designers and attendants and rejoined her husband and Lord Palmerston.

“Henry, will you watch for Sir Robert please? I will meet with him in the Blue Room today, and I think he expects to find me in my office.” Palmerston nodded the briefest of acknowledgements, and strode out to meet the Prime Minister, already amused at that man’s expected reaction to being greeted by the most notorious of the Whig ministers waiting in the wings to resume control of the government.

“Shall I send word that Lily may not travel? It is, after all, a long way to go without protection and the Chartists have been restive.”

“She travels privately, ma’am, and even the most ardent revolutionaries haven’t yet resorted to violence against women and children.” Melbourne’s mouth formed another smile which did not reach his eyes.

“William. If you don’t wish her to go, please say so. She is Princess Royal. That is reason enough to refuse to let her travel unattended.”

“Do _you_ want her to stay back? She is hardly more than a baby, and will be two weeks ahead of us, going to a strange place that can be overwhelming even to a girl of – what were you? Fourteen?”

Victoria felt herself rebuked, although her husband’s green eyes were gentle and his rasp voice held its usual caressing note. She felt vaguely guilty, aware that she did not felt the same pain at being apart from her younger child he did. Lily would, after all, be in the best possible hands, her father’s own niece, a young woman who took to motherhood quite avidly. And yet - William wanted something more.

“You are right, of course. I remember how very strange the Pavilion seemed to me, and I was almost grown. I will send word that Lily is not to travel with the Jocelyns. She belongs with her parents. And I want – I want _you_ to be the one to show her the wonders of Brighton. And the sea. She has never seen the sea.” Victoria was relieved to see Melbourne’s expression brighten. She released his hand and exhaled.

“My love –“ Melbourne took hold of her, putting his hands on her waist and leaning his forehead against hers. “ – she is so much like you! I see you in her each time I look at her. Perhaps if I made myself less available, you would have more of a chance to get to know her. The tempers she shows you do not mean she is not attached to you. They only mean she is very sure she is loved, and fears nothing as a result.”

Victoria laughed silently. “My darling William, Lily is yours through and through. Never have I seen a child so attached to her father – everyone says so. That alone gives us something in common. I am not the most natural mother, but I do love her. How could I not? You gave her to me. Liam is – Liam seems to _like_ me more, and I respond to that more easily than I do a daughter who wishes me anywhere but in her father’s arms.”

“Will you do something for me?” Melbourne whispered, his head still against hers, so she felt his breath on her cheek.

“Anything. You know that!”

“Go to her in the evenings, when she is already drowsy. She is not so much of a handful then. Just…sit with her. Hold her, let her feel her mother’s heartbeat, the comfort of your arms. Nothing else, just that. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course. I try to hear their prayers every night, but sometimes duty intervenes.”

“Then go to her later. Lay beside her. No prayers, no talk, no _purpose_. Just hold her. She needs her mother, whether or not she knows it. And you need her too.”

Victoria felt vaguely irritated, as though he had criticized her, but he was too close, his touch too welcome, for her to pull away. Instead he lifted her chin and kissed her, eyelids, cheeks, nose and finally her lips, murmuring whispered endearments all the while, until he felt her melt into his arms, her body giving in to his, knowing with her entire being that for him, she would do as he asked. She would try harder to be the mother he wanted his child to have.

Victoria gloried in the feel of his hard chest against her breasts, the feel of his shoulders under the broadcloth coat he wore. She reached up and ran her fingers through his curls, then stroked the sharp contours of his handsome face while she still tasted his mouth. And she was overcome once again with wonder, at the sheer power and immensity of her love for this man.


	18. Chapter 18

 The air was cool, even clammy, under a leaden gray sky which promised more rain would fall. The Queen and her consort stood side by side – hand in hand for those who looked closely – watching a small convoy of coaches and wagons receding into the distance, down the long road which led away from Windsor Castle. While certainly comfortable, even luxurious by some standards, as befitted an MP and Prime Minister Peel’s Joint Secretary to the Board of Control, none bore the crest of any but a provincial minor noble, the 3rd Earl of Roden.

A small cluster of attendants of the Royal household huddled under the protection of an overhang, ladies trying not to shiver, clutching fine woven shawls designed more for appearance than protection from inclement weather.

Of these, more than one was aware of mild heartache and envy, thinking of their own marriages grown stale, husbands no longer solicitous if they ever were, any hint of romance found in the company of lovers rather than husbands. Their Queen and her husband should present an improbable pair, he over sixty and she not yet twenty-five, but the love between them was palpable.

Not that any would consider Lord Melbourne elderly or infirm; he was as handsome now as he’d ever been, his chiseled features only refined with age, skin taut against prominent cheekbones, large hooded green eyes, a Roman nose that gave rise to risqué speculation. Those eyes – the merest glance could send hearts fluttering, and when he bestowed a smile one quite felt as though no one else existed for him at that moment. Lady Portman received just such a special smile as the royal couple passed, and could not resist showing her near neighbor and court rival Charlotte Canning a victorious glance.

Victoria knew precisely the effect her husband had on the girls and women of her Court, and accepted it with somewhat grudging tolerance and a certain amount of pride. There were females of whom she harbored considerable suspicion, not because she distrusted William but rather because like all men he could be foolish and susceptible to flattery and wile, but Emma Portman was not one of them. She had proved herself too good a friend, too valuable an ally.

“I do wish Lehzen had gone with them,” Victoria said to her husband as they entered through a smaller side door from the courtyard.

“She is perfectly well in Fanny’s care. And I think without the comfort of the Baroness’s presence, Lily will be even more happy to see us when we arrive next weekend.” By _us_ , he meant _you_ , of course. Victoria understood that. Their daughter would never _not_ be ecstatic to have her father restored to her. Victoria, first surprised when he changed his mind in support of Lily’s departure, ruefully accepted their daughter’s impassioned pleading had softened his resolve. She also knew and accepted his stratagem to provide a reset of sorts, so that their indomitable three-year-old might turn to her mother with warmth when they were reunited. And that she herself might do the same. _It’s working already_ , she conceded, feeling oddly unsettled at the thought of her tiny daughter away from her protection.

Wanting very much to feel his arm about her, knowing it would be the sort of overly-familiar, improper gesture one could not indulge in the hallowed halls of Windsor, Victoria settled for putting her arm through his. The contact reassured and balanced her as it always did, and she knew it would never be otherwise, that she would always need the security of his presence.

“Sir Robert comes with a full agenda of his own today,” Melbourne reminded her. “The abstract he sent only covered the main points. This will be your last meeting before you dismiss Parliament for the summer, and I’m sure he has a firm list of items to go over for the speech he has written you.”

“I’m sure he has,” Victoria agreed with something less than enthusiasm. “He will have brought the full report on the Company we requested. Are you certain you wish to address the other issue today?”

“I do need to, my dear,” Melbourne said. “His government can’t stand much longer – he has alienated too much of his own base – and I want to go over this now, before the Whigs are back in power.”

A sentry outside the door to the Queen’s official office saluted and opened the door. Lord Melbourne stood aside and waited for his wife to enter. As soon as they were inside and the door closed, Victoria spun around and pushed herself against him. His arms went around her small frame of their own accord and they stood that way for a long moment, drawing comfort from each other, for no particular reason other than it was what they did.

“It’s quite chilly for June,” Victoria murmured, her face resting against his waistcoat. “Ireland is having a horrible growing season, everything far too wet for the farmers to plant. Do you think Lily will be warm enough? She wore a summer dress.”

“And a cape, as I recall. And a bonnet. I’m sure Fanny has made adequate preparations. She has two other little girls with her and the three of them will keep quite warm bouncing about.” He pressed a kiss to Victoria’s dark hair. “You sound like a mother.”

“William! Don’t tease. Here at home I have no need for concern. It’s quite different when one’s child is journeying so far.”

“Your daughter will be fine, ma’am, and very happy to see you when you are reunited.” His lips still against her hair, his voice muffled. Victoria felt the warmth of his breath and shivered a little, pleasantly.

“Our daughter, William. Or more properly, _yours_ as everyone knows. I do wish we could stop the silliness of pretending otherwise. There are more ways to honor Albert, genuinely celebrate his life and all those things which made him a remarkably gifted person, than to attach his name to the children he was quite happy to assign you.”

“That can’t be, Victoria,” Melbourne murmured, knowing she did not seriously contemplate such a course of action, needing to remind her nonetheless.

“Someday…I will not rest until someday they can be known as yours. Your legacy, my darling, or a part of it.”

“I have no need of a legacy, but if I do have one, then let it be what I do to advise you, the role I play in their life now. Any man can procreate, after all.”

“But not _any_ man did. _You_ did. It is your blood which runs through the veins of the next King of England, and his children and grandchildren. They should have your name.”

Melbourne laughed genially. “What name would that be, my love? Peniston Lamb’s? He deserves no such honor. You see? It matters little who was present at conception.”

Their talk was rambling, aimless, and they still stood in an embrace when the door opened to admit the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Robert Peel. He no longer was shocked or embarrassed to interrupt them in private moments. A devoted family man himself, who deeply loved his own wife, such signs of marital felicity between his redoubtable sovereign and her consort seemed to reassure him that she was, in fact, merely mortal.

“Sir Robert,” Victoria said, smiling and stepping regretfully back from her husband. Peel bowed over hand, stiffly, as he did everything, but with a warm smile on his long face.

“Your Majesty. Lord Melbourne.”

Victoria asked the footman who had shown Peel in to order refreshments, tea and biscuits and coffee for Melbourne, and moved briskly behind her desk. Where Victoria would have gone directly to discussion of their business, and Peel – never a naturally sociable man – would have eagerly followed her lead, Melbourne instead asked after his wife and the affairs of his family with genuine interest. A proud husband and father, he was soon engaged in voluble discussion of his seven children, the eldest married to the 6th Earl of Jersey, having only recently presented him with a third healthy heir.

Victoria had long since learned to value her minister for his strengths, as an excellent administrator who managed his ministry well, for his hard work, personal integrity, high standards, attention to duty and an intellect which nearly rivaled that of Melbourne. She saw in him many of the same political attributes she valued in her first Prime Minister, and it frustrated her that while he was commended for his centrist views and instinct for building consensus, Lord M had been castigated for those same things.

She watched and listened with admiration for her husband’s social ease and the understated charming warmth with which he allowed Peel to shine. Everyone who knew him greatly liked William Lamb, even those most critical of his politics or propensity for scandal. Victoria accepted that charisma would always be her husband’s forte, not her own, and was quite content to have it so. When Melbourne glanced her way with the subtlest of winks she caught herself staring and knew she must have looked absurdly lovelorn while doing so. Recovering herself, Victoria composed her features and pointedly opened the lid of the dispatch box.

“I have a summary of my speech to the House of Commons, should Your Majesty wish to review it.” Melbourne knew Peel to be a gifted orator – far better than he himself had ever been, so he had told the Queen, who received his analysis doubtfully – and had heard enough of the position Peel intended to take, to be curious what the man himself would repeat. Victoria accepted the written draft he handed her, but set it aside.

“Please, just cover what you consider to be the main points.”

“This was the subject which brought Lord Melbourne’s government such extreme censure. At that time, I sat in Opposition and perhaps judged too harshly. Since then my eyes have been opened to the reality of the situation. The measures adopted by Your Majesty's Government have not been successful in abolishing this human traffic. The horrors of the Slave Trade continue — abated in some degree, but still to an extent which every friend to humanity must deplore. When the proposal was made to abolish the Slave Trade, it was foreseen, whatever measure you might adopt to effect it, that would lead in some degree to an aggravation of the evil.

“Those who were averse to the abolition of the Slave Trade said, that if it were abolished slave smuggling would follow to a greater extent than then existed. Still, general considerations of humanity prevailed over objections of that nature; this country determined to set an example to the rest of the world, and abolished the Slave Trade; not, however, without feeling that, the evils of the illegal traffic might be greater than those of the permitted traffic.

“When I opposed Lord Melbourne on this issue, I admitted the advantage of introducing free labour into your Colonies, but now I apprehend that the two systems are not consistent, and that an attempt to make them so would give encouragement to the direct Slave Trade. What was most grievously distorted – by my own party, a fact I am not proud to admit – was that Lord Melbourne was tepid in his condemnation of the trade and only came out in opposition grudgingly. The facts, as I know them now, are that we faced an impossible reparations payment of more than £20,000,000 to those English citizens whose slaves would have been forfeit, and importation of convict labor, as decreed in Your Majesty’s most recent order rescinding your uncle’s Transportation Order, would only negligibly offset the deficit.”

Victoria expressed her appreciation for his genuine, if belated, acknowledgement of the political interests which had so unfairly slandered her then-Prime Minister.

“I have here a letter from our naval officer which tends to prove it is so. The letter is dated from Her Majesty's ship Cleopatra, off Quilimane, December 20, 1844; and the writer says…”

“And what was Lord Palmerston’s position? I believe Brougham claims he was opposed to any further examination of the matter?” Melbourne asked, knowing Victoria likewise wished to hear the answer spoken aloud.

“The honorable gentleman is not in opposition to the principal, ma’am. No right-thinking person can consider the Slave Trade a legitimate venture. Lord Palmerston’s expressed concern was that evidence taken was partly that of French officers, and disclosed the means used by the slavers to escape our cruisers, and that public inconvenience would result from laying it open in testimony which reveals those methods. But surely the slave traders were too well acquainted with their own practices to receive any information from these papers.”

Victoria was aware of a certain feeling of relief. How unfair it was, the accusations which flew from one party to another, seeking to besmirch their opposition. Even the newspapers, some of them, made it sound as though Palmerston was somehow defending the Trade when he only sought to limit what was discussed in open chamber about tactics. Such things were not limited to one party, but it did seem as though Conservatives were far more likely to hide behind morality and the false equivalency of national interest to rile up the populace. These headlines had especially rankled because there was still a tendency to link everything his outspoken brother-in-law and former Foreign Secretary said and did to the Melbourne Ministry, now nearly five years out of office.

“Transparency,” Lord Melbourne repeated the word slowly, the light in his eyes almost playful now. Victoria, watching with scarcely concealed pleasure, appreciated once more how exactly suited her husband’s most appealing traits were to the give-and-take exchanges of political discourse as engaged in by gentlemen who understood the game, and how sadly misjudged he was by those who downplayed his contributions.

Peel, all movement arrested, looked at Melbourne with frank curiosity. “Pray continue, Lord Melbourne. You have my full attention.”

As they had agreed beforehand, Victoria rose and said her goodbyes to Peel, reminding him that he and Julia, his wife, would be looked for at the grand costume ball to be held at the Royal Pavilion.

Lord Melbourne lounged back in his chair, fanning himself with a sheaf of letters in blue legal binding drawn from the stack on the Queen’s desk and began to lazily summarize everything contained in the Rothschild papers.

**

Victoria walked back to her drawing room entirely unattended, a novel enough experience that the royal footman standing outside the door looked momentarily taken aback at being alone in proximity to the Queen.

Those ladies-in-waiting on duty were engrossed in animated discussion which immediately ceased when their Queen entered. A few of the ladies were scarcely known to Victoria, at least on a personal level, but something about the artificial way they began conversing piqued Victoria’s interest and she glanced about inquisitively, joining the group and taking a seat on the sofa beside Lady Portman.

Lady Charlemont had served her in that capacity since her accession and was perhaps most familiar, next to Lady Portman and the absent Fanny Jocelyn. Elizabeth Wellesley, wife of Lord Douro and daughter-in-law to the venerable Wellington had served since 1839, and seemed a pleasant enough woman; Elizabeth Cuffe, Countess of Desart, was the newest, having only been at Court a few short months. Charlotte Canning had served for some three years and, while not a friend, Victoria found her intelligent, socially adept and quite sensible. She was married to the son of Lord Melbourne’s early political foe, the Tory Prime Minister George Canning. Emma Portman, the longest serving amongst them, was the only one Victoria considered a true intimate, and it was she and Emily Temple, still present after having seen off her daughter, grandchildren and niece earlier, with whom Victoria felt most truly at ease.

Victoria wasn’t prone to establishing close female friendships, in part because her own husband was her best friend and favored companion and in part because she was simply more comfortable around men. Being surrounded by decorative female companions was merely one more demand of protocol she tolerated as part of the role she must play and Victoria generally made only the most light-hearted small talk with whoever was on duty. She did so now, returning banal chat and pleasantries – _yes, indeed, the weather is oppressive_ ; _no, the Prince of Wales did not leave for Brighton_ ; _the new mutton-chop sleeve seems quite overdone but perhaps I will change my mind when I’ve seen it displayed to advantage_ – until luncheon was announced. Victoria rose and graciously inclined her head, indicating her ladies had permission to withdraw, clearly meaning it was her desire they do so. She laid a hand on Lady Portman’s forearm to detain her.

When they were alone, with only Emily still present and watching with sharp eyes, Victoria held out her hand silently. Lady Portman hesitated long enough that Victoria suspected she might claim ignorance, but instead she withdrew a printed pamphlet from where she had tucked it out of sight, down a sofa cushion.

Emily’s hand darted out, it seemed involuntarily, and she appeared to be about to snatch the booklet from the Queen’s hand. Instead she kept her hand extended and met Victoria’s gaze.

“May I have that, Your Majesty?” She cast a sidelong glance at Emma Portman, appearing surprised to see her still there. “Emma, you may leave us and join the others.”

Victoria’s ire momentarily rose, that her sister-in-law should presume to dismiss her attendant – and friend. Then she nodded, grudgingly.

“It’s all right, Emma. I wish to talk to Emily alone.”

When they were alone, Emily held out her hand once more.

“Ma’am, may I have that please?” She repeated. “William will not want you troubled by such rubbish. I believe Lady Cuffe to be the one who brought it in, and should be dismissed at once.”

“No,” Victoria said slowly. “That would give the matter too much importance. She will finish her duties this month and then…not be placed back on the schedule. We will continue her stipend, of course. I do not want a revival of this cause célèbre. Emma will give out that she destroyed this before I ever saw it.”

Emily Temple’s eyes widened in new respect for her young sister-in-law’s calm, pragmatic – some might even say cynical – approach.

“But why now? Who _cares_ nine years afterward? Was she simply hoping to impress the others and make a splash as the newest lady-in-waiting?” Victoria wondered aloud.

“That, probably,” Emily agreed. “But also, the date. It was none years ago _today_ that the trial began. It was the biggest story in the country at the time.” She hesitated. “You will give it to Emma to destroy? May I take it for you and give to her? Or ask for a fire to be laid – to counteract the dampness, we can say – and chuck it myself?”

Victoria looked down thoughtfully, studying the cover, fanning the pages slowly. “No,” she said finally. “I think I must read it.” Emily’s gaze went toward the doorway, and Victoria knew her husband had joined them. She slid the booklet into her skirt pocket just as he reached her side, then turned her face to him expectantly, accepting his greeting. Victoria decided she would not conceal her possession of the pamphlet – book, really, it was that thick despite the cheap paper and ink – but would tell him when they were alone. Nothing, _nothing_ , could alter her feelings for him but it was time she knew what he had faced during that horrible, humiliating period. He was a good, kind man, gentle and in every way wonderful, and she cherished his desire to protect her. _But I am no longer a girl; I am a woman and his wife and want to prove my loyalty so he never need doubt it. Besides, I can’t bear that woman know anything about him, share any memory, of which I know nothing._

Victoria smiled up at his dear, handsome face and squeezed his hand.


	19. Chapter 19

Reform Club, 104 Pall Mall London

While not a formal State dinner, nor was it strictly _en famille_. Those occasions, when only the Royal couple were at table with, perhaps, the Duchess of Kent and the Baroness Lehzen or, if the Duchess were visiting one of her many friends and the Baroness chose to have dinner sent to her suite, then only the Queen and Lord Melbourne, were so rare they could be counted in the single digits over the course of a year.

As keenly as Victoria loathed, even in memory, the painful isolation of her Kensington girlhood, she still found the constant presence of so very many others one of the sore trials of her position. It was duty and expectation that the Queen’s Majesty never be unattended, so the dinner party was counted a small group. The Viscount Melbourne had been excused to join Viscount Palmerston and some of their cronies at the Reform Club, and Lady Palmerston had left even before her brother. At the Queen’s table were seated the Earl and Countess de la Warr, those ladies-in-waiting on duty and their male counterparts – the Queen only appointed those peers to the Royal household her Prime Minister suggested, because Lord Melbourne steadfastly refused to fill any positions left open after His Royal Highness Prince Albert’s untimely demise – and a handful of minor European nobility currently visiting their English cousins.

After the tedium of dinner, which Victoria spent conversing almost mindlessly with her near neighbors and toying with the food on her plate to delay removal of each course until her guests had eaten their fill, she led the ladies from table so the gentlemen could partake of brandy.

Victoria was especially appreciative of the musical entertainment which had been arranged, because her thoughts were entirely occupied with the bedtime reading she had in store. She would have told William already, had there been an opportune moment, and was aware of feeling vague anticipatory guilt, as though prying into his private affairs. _A published pamphlet long since read by thousands, brought to Court entirely unsolicited - why should I feel guilty?_ _Because he doesn’t wish me to read it? How do I even know that?_

When the evening could finally, with propriety, be ended Victoria completed her evening _toilette_ with swift efficiency and dismissed her dresser. Then, finally, she was alone and could examine this item which had caused him so much pain then, the contents of which still made him the butt of crude jokes nearly a decade later. Victoria’s fury was kindled all over again at the thought of the insufferable woman who had dared bring this to Court and, by doing so, hold William up to ridicule. Or – the thought occurred for the first time – perhaps _not_ ridicule. Perhaps what was described in these pages titillated those giggling, whispering hussies, perhaps they already knew things she did not, had read intimate acts described in these pages that made them look at him with something far different than the scorn he imagined.

Hands trembling, a feeling of nausea already rising in her throat, Victoria forced herself to open the cover. She wanted above all to page quickly through, looking only for those bits which – _but no, this thing purports to be serious journalism, shorthand minutes taken of the entire proceeding, and I will read it beginning to end, so I can capture the feel of the trial itself, not merely the most lurid allegations._

He had long since admitted to his sexual liaison with Caroline Norton, and Victoria was not witless enough to consider in the abstract any blame should attach to a man engaging in intercourse with a willing woman. Her feelings had been lacerated by the knowledge that he had maintained, or resumed, his friendship with _that woman_ and it bothered her far, far more that he took delight in her company, had a fondness for her that went beyond sexual release, and the creature _flaunted his affection for her_ , to society, to those who knew William and even were received at court.

After several abortive attempts he had finally, blessedly, severed the connection once and for all. Victoria believed him when he said his heart had never been involved in the affair, that Norton had only been to him exactly what she was to those others who frequented her _salons_ , a bright, amusing companion, viciously clever and entertaining. Or rather, she _wanted_ to believe him, despite Norton’s own claims that she had once had his love, and retained a residual claim on his affections which would never entirely fade.

Yet now, nine years to the day after the trial commenced, that this pamphlet made its way into her hands seemed more than mere coincidence. Unlike those troublemakers who, through partisanship or merely desire to sow the seeds of doubt, this was written by a purportedly impartial journalist, a reporter like Mr. Dickens who sat through every word of the witness testimony with no motive other than to document the proceedings.

 _“The hon. Mrs. Norton is granddaughter of Richard Brinsely Sheridan, and daughter of the late Thomas Sheridan…”_ Knowing it to be standard usage only, Victoria still snorted out loud at “the honorable” designation. _There is nothing honorable about that…that whore_ , she muttered aloud. Still resolved to address the material methodically and dispassionately, Victoria forced herself to read every syllable with the same care and attention she devoted to those bills laid before her for consideration.

The genealogy of both Nortons was laid out in great detail and Victoria digested each word. An ancestor of George Norton convicted of high treason against the Crown during Elizabeth’s reign. More attention paid to the ancestors of the plaintiff, who himself seemed to be a rather hapless fool despite his ancient lineage. Victoria tried to envision George Norton, unable to reconcile in her mind the image of William Lamb with this…this clod pole, this fool, this _magistrate_ who couldn’t even obtain his own living without setting his wife to seduce the Home Secretary.

The names and birth dates of the three children followed, and to these she paid special attention. Fletcher, born in 1829 and then, more worrying, Thomas Brinsley in November 1831 and William – _William,_ sharing a name with her own son, the Prince of Wales, born 26 August 1833.

The trial, in the Court of Common Pleas, commenced June 22, 1836 – _nine years ago today_ , Victoria thought, casting her mind back to that year before she became Queen. _Where was I, what was I doing? How did I not know of this celebrated trial, when the whole country talked of nothing else? Surely, I knew who the Prime Minister was, I had – I’m sure I must have – seen him or even been introduced to him at one of Uncle King’s State occasions?_ Victoria continued reading and came almost immediately to a curious line.

“The name of Sir Robert Peel was called, but the hon. Baronet did not answer.” _Peel? What on earth would he have had to do with such a proceeding?_ Victoria thought of her stiff, overly pious First Lord and could not imagine him involving himself, however peripherally, in such a scandalous trial.

The writer described a tumultuous scene, people rushing in, fighting over the available seats, laughing out loud and demonstrating “considerable merriment.” _Poor William!_ She thought in a rush. _He so hates calling attention to himself, how did he endure the spectacle?_

A Mr. Bayley was described as opening the pleadings. When he read the parties’ names, Victoria cringed. Seeing that beloved name in print, in this vile context, was horrible enough; how much worse had it been to hear it declared in open court, in such a setting?

Seeing that a recitation of the accusations followed, Victoria laid the book face-down on her lap and closed her eyes against the sympathetic anguish washing over her. The she picked it up resolutely and began reading again.

“…the defendant in this case has taken advantage of his high position to lull the suspicions…to introduce himself into the family of the plaintiff as a benefactor, a patron and a friend…if you find that this illicit intercourse has been long continued -that children have been born and that it is impossible to ascertain the extent of the injury…Lord Melbourne was a constant visitor to the house at times when Mr. Norton was not there. He began by coming to the house shortly after the duties of the Home Office were discharged – about 3 o’clock. He was in the habit of leaving before Mr. Norton returned…”

Victoria found herself breathless and had to once more lay the book aside. It did indeed hurt so much it took her breath away. _I hope he was engaged in constant_ criminal intercourse _, from the moment he stepped through that door until the moment he departed again. Hours and hours of intercourse. Because if not, then what drew him there and kept him there_ except _fondness, affection, the bonds of_ love _, despite what he told me, what he swore to be true. He has many other friends, many close companions whose company he enjoys at his club, yet never spent two, three, four hours each day in their company. What is that, if not_ love?

She couldn’t bear the doubts swirling through her mind once more, long after she’d thought they were far behind her. A woman now, well-versed in physical intimacy, she understood full well that no one occupied themselves for that many hours a day, most days of the week, on mere sexual intercourse.

 _He did love her_. The words formed themselves in her mind, stark and so undeniable she felt foolish for ever accepting his denials. _Stop!_ _You will not react so!_ _This changes nothing. You have not yet read his defense._ But Victoria knew that whatever would come after, the salacious testimony of dubious validity from discharged servants, his own attorney’s rebuttal, nothing would change the simple fact that he sought this woman out to spend hours a day in her company, sat with her when she was ill, called upon her with such regularity that the only letters called into evidence were notes sent on the rare days he had to absent himself from her home. _That is affection. Gentlemen do not, I am certain, send round to houses of ill repute explaining away their inability to call on a particular day._

Victoria, suddenly too miserable to continue, rolled over onto her side and buried her face in the pillow, the misbegotten pamphlet temporarily forgotten. She knew, above all else, with reason ruthlessly silencing emotion, that nothing had changed. William loved _her_ , no matter what he might have felt for anyone else before. They had fought this battle, not between them but together, against that horrible woman who continued to protest her love for him long after _whatever_ transpired between them had ended.

Some vague sounds in the corridor, heard even through stout walls and heavy doors, told her he was home and she clung to that, composing her features and stilling her thoughts. She would continue to read through to the end – the first part contained only the allegations, so of course they would be most detrimental – but knew she could not, would not, discuss the matter with him. There was nothing he could say, no more he could do to prove his love and push his past away.

**

Melbourne was in an ebullient mood, with no small thanks to the bottles of good imported fortified wine they had emptied at table as they lingered in talk long after the meal. _Peel at the Reform Club_ , he chortled to himself. _Those hallowed walls should have tumbled down like those of Jericho when a Tory PM entered._ He had entered discreetly, of course, and the well-trained servitors betrayed no hint of surprise at the stranger in their midst.

Most importantly, they had reached a genuine understanding. Melbourne was a realist, and had never imagined he could overturn an entire entrenched system – nor, in fact, would he have wanted to. If anything, the hard evidence they had only proved his long-held opinion that, despite what the Radicals clamored for, only the presence of gentlemen in government, those born to an independence, tied to long-held property and titles, could provide the stabilizing influence needed to lead a nation. Introducing landless, penniless men to political office and providing an income to sustain them was an atrocious idea. Men like that would be entirely vulnerable to the unimaginable sums offered for their vote by the trading companies and bankers. _Transparency_ , that was the thing. Let each House know who collected how much from which concerns, and what, if anything, was expected in return. There would be some resistance, of course there would, but Peel agreed that at the right time he would present it.

Already every man was keen to know what their fellows received. Let there be complete transparency both in the funding of campaigns for office and in the benefits received during an officeholder’s term. An Emoluments Bill, not as their American cousins understood the term, but in its more literal definition, a requirement that each Member document all the returns arising from office or employment, usually in the form of compensation or perquisites, or favors such as large loans without definite terms of repayment, property transfer, as well as mortgages held and by whom. Reform, all right – that word, as little as Melbourne liked it, had the ability to inspire passionate support by those who clamored for change in the way government was administered – but not so substantial as to upset all that was best in the existing system.

The most compelling argument in favor of such an Emoluments Bill was that, once such favors were received, the recipient was doubly in the debt of his benefactor, for as long as such matters were kept hidden, the threat of disclosure remained long after the initial favor had faded from memory. That gave the bankers far-reaching influence, as they hoped to exercise in showing their hand to the Queen’s husband.

Melbourne, so long a believer in the least-painful, most expedient solution to a problem, was well satisfied with his night’s work. _Spike their guns_ , as Wellington had said earlier, another interloper in the sacred precincts of liberalism. _Deny them their primary weapon, secrecy,_ the Duke had said approvingly. The money will still flow, because they have no other means of gaining their ends, treaties, laws, decisions of policy favorable to their interests. But it will be reported and documented. _Even taxed as income_? One skeptic had asked. Peel was readily able to answer in the affirmative. _Even taxed_.

Most emphatically those gentlemen gathered around a table in a private room at the Reform club agreed upon the clear understanding that Her Majesty had not been touched by any such _emoluments_ or favors, and since her coronation had steadfastly resisted any attempts to be guided by any save her own ministers.

Neither the Queen nor her uncle King William before her knew of nor condoned the opium trade. The Crown knew nothing of the obscene profits derived from opium trade, and no percent went to the Crown directly. She had, after being given a letter from the Chinese Emperor, directed her ministers to consider the matter and was assured that such trade, while unfortunately conducted by some foreign traders, was entirely outside the scope of British control.

Thanks to the East India Company, such a claim could be made definitively. The Company was adept at using third party traders to keep free of direct importation. It maintained its own regiments, governed India with those troops, directly funded the men and the ships and the armaments and the officeholders in the East. That was of course one great burden Her Majesty’s Treasury did not have to assume, so in that sense, opium built and sustained Her Majesty’s ever-expanding domains, but no one cared to dive that far into the weeds.

Her Majesty would come out once more, in her speech at the closing of Parliament, in opposition to the deadly drug and any involvement by the Crown in supplying it.  She would be publicly assured by her Prime Minister that this moral outrage was completely shared by her ministers.

Melbourne sauntered into the Queen’s apartments and was surprised to see the light on in her bedchamber. _All the better_ , he thought merrily. _I would join her in any case, but if she’s awake…_

He loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his tailcoat, while that small secret voice – sounding so much like the boy he had been long ago – marveled once again that he was free to enter the Queen’s bedchamber at will, free to…well, to engage in activities of which any boy dreamed. Smirking at the thought, he approached.

**

Victoria felt a knot of tension in her stomach, almost overcoming that tension she felt gathering lower in her belly whenever he was near. How unfair it was, she thought, that he was all she ever wanted and all she’d never known, when he’d had so many others… _wanted_ so many others the way she wanted only him.

“Peel joined us and it all went off as well as I could have hoped. He’s not opposed to speaking out against secret patronage and will consider drafting a bill requiring all Members to disclose the sources of gifts and outside earnings - emoluments - from these banks and special interest. Not yet, of course. He feels his party will be in power at least until next year – but when their days are numbered. Wellington agrees, and he knows his name appears among those the bankers claim as beneficiaries of their largess.”

Victoria made sure her gaze never left his face, and she displayed only pleasant interest. Above all, she did not want to disclose what she had been thinking…or reading. _Where is the book? Where is the damned book?_ With great effort, she resisted looking for it.

When he leaned towards her, she thought he would kiss her hand or perhaps embrace her. Instead, he lowered his head even further and reached for something on the floor. Victoria knew instantly exactly what he held when he stood back up.

He made a show of glancing at the cover, as though he didn’t recognize at a single glance the lurid artwork. Lifting one brow in an expressive gesture, he smirked and shook his head.

“Yours, ma’am?” he drawled. Victoria felt her face warm and knew herself to be blushing. Her eyes fluttered in confusion.

“I’ve never read it all the way through, although of course I’ve been given many copies. You must enlighten me.” Victoria heard a strange, cool note in his voice that made her raise her eyes. His own green ones were hooded and mocking. “No, on second thought, don’t. _We are not doing this again._ ” He tossed the pamphlet on her bed and turned away.

“Where – where are you going?” Victoria asked, her voice more shrill and uncertain than she would have preferred.

“To my apartment. I want to make a few notes on this evening’s business while it’s still fresh in my mind.” He sounded civil, polite, distant. “Ma’am? Do I have your permission to withdraw?” That, then, was mockery Victoria heard. Without waiting for an answer, he strolled out, not through the door which linked their apartments, but back through her private sitting room and into the corridor.

Victoria sat on her bed in silence, listening to the ornate clock on the mantle tick away the minutes, waiting for her husband’s return. The midnight hour came and went, then one, and still she was alone. _Why is he angry at_ me _?_ She wondered aloud, almost entirely forgetting her earlier feeling of guilt at keeping the pamphlet, of wanting to read about that horrid trial. _And how dare he say ‘we are not doing this again’ when it is his shame, his_ sin _, not mine?_ But the words rang hollow, and even her earlier heartache paled beside this feeling of being cast adrift. While she still had the vestige of offended pride to sustain her, Victoria rose and with determination followed the path he had taken, through her apartment toward his.

Sentries were on duty, but betrayed no sign of curiosity in seeing their sovereign in her nightdress venture into the hallway. Victoria slipped past them without acknowledgement and shook her head slightly when one sprightly fellow leaped forward, intending to announce her outside her husband’s door. She hesitated, her hand on the knob, and then, aware of being watched – of course they were, they were only human, after all – squared her shoulders and opened the door. It was far heavier than she anticipated, or perhaps she was so unaccustomed to opening doors they were all this formidable, and for one horrible second Victoria imagined she would be unable to push her own way in. But finally, it gave way enough for her to step inside and close it behind her.

The sitting room was empty. _He retired alone, without me, without returning to bid me good night_ , and she wanted suddenly to be back in her own apartment, pride safely intact.

He sat up in bed reading, by the light of a single lamp, and as she approached he continued to do so, intent, she thought, on ignoring her. Victoria cleared her throat uncertainly.

Finally he looked up, feigning surprise, but said nothing.

“You did not say if you would return so I came here,” she announced.

“So I see,” he said only, watching her speculatively.

“William – I fear you are angry at me. I did not come to fight with you.”

“Why did you come? It’s far too late to be walking the halls of this fortress.” Victoria thought that the words might have been kind, or at least conversational, but there was no hint of the half-amused note she was accustomed to hearing in his raspy voice.

“I – I – you are my husband. I wanted to be with you,” Victoria stuttered, at a loss. _Why is he so cool? So distant? Have I intruded on something, some memories, he holds dear? Not that awful trial but the…the loss it represents?_ The notion made her ill, and angry, and overpoweringly needy and even something else. She realized that what she felt was desire, a strange twisted kind. She wanted to feel him with her, focused only on her, _in_ her, where there was no space for anyone else to come between them. Emboldened, she stepped forward and drew her negligee over her shoulders, baring them, so that she stood only in her transparent gown.

The hint of a smile seemed to quirk his lips, so that just the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. He laid aside the book he was reading, placing a scrap of paper with great care to hold his place.

“I see,” was all he said in response. Victoria stomped her foot angrily.

“Don’t be this way. Talk to me,” she demanded crossly.

“But you see, I don’t wish to talk about the topic I fear you want to discuss. Was there something else you wished me to say on the subject?” Victoria stared at him, at his handsome face so cool and even cynical where she was used to seeing nothing but tenderness. Then he shifted slightly, and extended his hand, and she sighed almost audibly with relief. It would be all right, then, was her only thought.

She approached and rather than sit on the bed beside him, climbed nimbly up and over so she was on his lap, facing him. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him softly.

“I have no wish to talk about anything but us,” she said. “Or, not to talk at all.” She kissed him again, before releasing him and sitting up. _There_ , she thought with great satisfaction, _I’ve declared myself and reassured him I will not play the harpy._

He smiled again, more genuinely than previously, but still detached, as though pondering something. Victoria allowed her own expression to become more seductive.

“If we do not talk…what are we to do? Do you have anything particular in mind?” Melbourne’s tone was still cool, almost mocking.

Victoria raised her eyes in surprise, unsure of how she should respond. _Is he teasing me?_   She inhaled sharply, then exhaled with relief and pleasant anticipation when she felt his hands slide up her thighs, pushing the hem of her gown back, lifting it over her head. When he touched her, she felt as if her bones had turned liquid, and she clenched her legs around his thighs to keep from falling backward. He studied her responses with great interest and almost clinical detachment, his expert manipulations performing their magic once again. When Victoria thought she would lose herself entirely, he stopped, folding his hands on his chest with a magisterial air.

“You,” he said simply. Victoria questioned him with her eyes, unable to speak. “You are an apt pupil. Continue. Show me what you have learned.” When she understood his meaning her cheeks flushed a deep pink. He took her hand, gently but with determination, and led it where his had been so pleasingly deployed. He guided her movement until he was certain she knew what he wanted, and then leaned back against his pillows to watch. She felt deeply self-conscious and uncertain, but the strange glittering intensity of his green eyes seemed to compel her obedience. Her own touch should feel strange, and it did, but it was pleasurable sensation all the same, and although his expression was serious, even stern, his breath quickened in time with her own. She barely noticed when his hand came toward her, and when she became aware of his intention it quickened her pulse even more. She would have watched him as he watched her, but she was too close to attend. While her breath still came in ragged shuddering gasps he shifted so she spilled off his lap. His hands gripped her hips as he knelt behind her, hesitating until she groaned her need for him aloud.

**

“Shall I tell you exactly what Uxbridge said when he saw the identity of our mystery guest?” Melbourne asked, toying with the ends of Victoria’s long dark hair, using them as a brush to draw designs on the taut skin of her abdomen. He lay at ease, entirely naked, and she was pressed against his side, her legs wrapped tightly around his thigh.

“If you wish, Lord M,” Victoria answered in a whisper. “I would rather you tell me what other new things you have yet to teach me.”

“We only have another hour till dawn, ma’am. I’m afraid that isn’t nearly long enough. There are many, many things I have not taught you. Some which are not fit for well-brought-up young ladies, and others most certainly not fit for queens.”

“Have you made such a study of queens, then, that you know what is and isn’t fit to teach us?”

"Only one, ma'am. And I think perhaps it's time to begin your advanced education." Melbourne's voice was low, intimate and teasing. More importantly, Victoria heard the tenderness returned, that infinite loving tone she depended upon to live.  _Should I explain about that damned book?_   She wondered.  _Or just burn it, as Emily said?_ Sometimes the less said, the better. There were other ways to speak, than with words.


	20. Chapter 20

_Sunrise Over the Thames_

Milky pre-dawn light gradually filled the room, and still Victoria lay awake in her husband’s arms. They had talked lazily through the night, Melbourne retelling old boyhood anecdotes, scraps from his eclectic reading, humorous recollections of past encounters with notables whose names were familiar. She drifted along on the sound of his beloved voice, learning to see the world he had known through his eyes. Sometimes in the telling she heard something which made her heart contract with sympathetic sorrow, but it was not needed. His voice held no bitterness, no remembered pain, only the lilt of amusement at human folly.

Periodically she heard him grow quiet, and then he would look at her solicitously, to see whether she slept, but always Victoria’s eyes met his, shining with love and fascinated attention and she would whisper, _don’t stop_.

“You have not slept at all, my love,” he observed when, plainly, the new day would soon be dawning. “I’ve kept you awake all night.”

“I don’t ever want to sleep when I can listen to you,” Victoria said earnestly, and she knew her eyes showed the truth of it, shining in the dim light of a new day. “But you…you must rest.”

Melbourne chuckled, a pleasant easy sound that shook his chest where her head lay. “At my age, ma’am, sleep is overrated. I much prefer to be awake for every precious moment. If you’re truly not tired…will you rise instead? Come with me so I may show you something?”

Victoria instantly nodded, curious but no more, trusting that anything he might show her would be a new delight.

Victoria picked up her discarded negligee and opened the door connecting their apartments through the adjoining dressing rooms. Melbourne stepped through into his own dressing room and quickly pulled breeches and a shirt. In her own boudoir, Victoria was opening doors, with an annoyed expression. She looked up at him with an expression half-frustrated, half-embarrassed. “I’m afraid I don’t know where my dresses are kept.”

Melbourne huffed a soft laugh at her helplessness – at the way in which she was _kept_ quite helpless by a Palace structure put in place to render each servant necessary to their sovereign’s most basic functions – and joined her in opening one door after another. After an endless array of court dresses and ballgowns, fur capes and satin robes, they came upon a narrow wardrobe holding more simple gowns. With her husband’s help Victoria pulled on a light blue silk that slithered down over shoulders and hips, the soft fabric a pleasing sensation against her bare skin. Undergarments would require an entirely different search, one which neither initiated for their pre-dawn adventure.

She extended one foot, then another, watching her husband’s long slender fingers deftly manipulate the ribbons on her slippers, then rose and took the hand he extended.

“King George the IV had this section redesigned. Windsor had been quite left to quietly decay.  Someone – probably Wyattville himself, the architect our friend George could tell us a great deal about, I’m sure – redesigned this with a sense of…well, some say fairytale grandeur. You said once that it feels like living on a stage set, and that’s probably what they wanted. The skyline is designed to be dramatic, imposing, silhouetted against the horizon. All part of the need to sustain the mystique of the monarchy and emphasize the grandeur of an essentially irrelevant institution.”

“You think I’m irrelevant then? As Queen? You’ve said similar things before. Do you really?” Victoria was genuinely interested in his views and wonder how many others shared them. No man was a more ardent royalist than her husband, she knew, but not in the traditional sense. Cynicism and idealism had reached an accord in William Lamb.

“I believe you are a beautiful figurehead, and provide the sense of continuity and stability the country needs. Whether that will be enough in Liam’s time…I think, carefully done, and if we lay the groundwork now, it might be. Recall I said that to be believed, you must be seen?” Victoria nodded, almost breathless from the effort of climbing the tower stairs beside him. His legs, so much longer, carried him with ease. “Liam will need more than that to be believed. We need to establish rituals, ceremonies, traditions now that become so much a part of British society it will seem impossible to tear them out by the roots when calls come for a republic. Or, worse, a democracy like our cousins across the pond. You see how well that’s working for them? They look to the Old World for the ceremonious.”

“We’re going to the North Terrace?” Victoria recognized the expansive terrace through a round, porthole-like window in the door they passed.

“We will, my love, if you don’t wish to climb further. But a few more flights will give you a view of the sunrise I think you have never seen before.”

They reached a battlement just under the ceiling, part of the tower lengthened in the early years of the 19th century. Melbourne explained something of the project to her as he drew off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

“There’s a metaphor here for us, if we’re willing to see it. When the castle was redesigned by Wyattville, it was made to look ancient, as well as imposing. While it’s solid enough – bits of flint in the mortar, joining sections built in the late seventeenth and eighteenth century – this is all part of the stage design George was wise enough to understand was the point of it all. Or, if he wasn’t wise enough, he had shrewd heads about him. Look around, my love. Can you imagine archers, here, there, William the Conqueror striding out to survey the land he had invaded? Your history, my darling. Can you feel it all around you, in the edifice you see?”

Victoria thrilled the sound of his voice, to the beloved, raspy tone, the light insouciance which overlaid everything he said, the true depth of feeling underneath only she was privileged to share. With careful hands he drew her long loose hair from under the collar of his coat and spread it out over her shoulders like a gleaming cape.

“Yes? No?” he prompted, clearly teasing now. “That’s because it’s all an illusion. William the Conqueror never walked these halls, which didn’t exist until the 19th century. King Henry I was the first monarch to live here, it’s true, but it’s been added onto so many times in so many centuries, the whole is a pastiche of styles and designs whose only true purpose, ever, was to reinforce awe of the monarchy. Now, my love, if you want to see something truly awe-inspiring, look…”

He gently turned her to the east and, standing so closely behind her Victoria could feel his warmth all along her back, watched with her as pale orange light seemed to rise out of the river itself until the Thames was all aglow. The air was silent, as though the world held its breath, and slowly a brilliant golden-red light cast its iridescent glow over everything they beheld. Colors had never looked so vivid, treetops and fields a green so brilliant it almost hurt the eyes; the surface of the Thames a shining silver mirror ablaze with color. The sun seemed so close and so large she could reach out and touch it, Victoria thought, climbing out of the earth to fill the sky overhead.

“Look, my love…all of that…yours…” Victoria looked up at him when he spoke, but with exquisite gentleness he turned her face forward once more, to look out at the sun rising over England.

“Look…out there…you need not look at me. I will always be with you, whether you see me or not. Our love is immortal. But this world, it is so much bigger even than you imagine. And you must see and experience as much of it as you can. Look outward, my darling, always look outward. Trust that what you feel here is always within.” He laid his hand on her breast, over her heart. “ _Amaranthine_.”

Victoria could not much like his melancholy words, but she could not help exulting in his tone, the sheer joy and exuberance of his voice, and she wanted to understand because it seemed so important to him she do so. Victoria shivered, not from cold, but from the sense that just for a moment they had, together, tapped into something eternal, something far bigger than the concepts of their Protestant faith, something wondrous that surpassed all human understanding. _I will always be with you…our love is eternal…it will never die…_

“There,” he said, playful once more. “What do you give the woman who has literally everything? Why, something ethereal…a sunrise. Come, now, let’s go down. It’s far too chilly up here for you, especially considering you have nothing on underneath that frock.” His hand was warm where it cupped her breast, radiating his own heat to her painfully hard nipple.

**

 _So young, so very young still_ , Melbourne recognized, not for the first time certainly. Selfishly he delighted, reveled in her single-minded adoration – what man would not? Especially, what man could resist who found the love he’d been searching for an entire lifetime and it was miraculously, inexplicably returned from the unlikeliest of sources? He knew he must prepare her for the inevitable – what man more than four decades older than his eventual widow did not? – but also, that he must do what he could to prepare her for her own magnificent destiny. And that meant encouraging her to look ahead, look outward at the world around her, persuade her that she need not focus so exclusively on what she already had. _And she has me, mind, heart, body and soul, as she has had since I first laid eyes on her. If only the absurd, wonderful creature could know the depth of my devotion she’d realize how foolish it is to waste a single moment on jealousy._ He drew her closer to his side as they went down the winding tower staircase.

They entered her apartment unseen, this hour of the day least populated by ever-present sentries, royal footmen and scurrying maids. Her own official hour of rising was still an hour off. He followed her into the inner chamber, and they both paused as Victoria looked at the offending book, splayed open so its cover was on full display.

He smirked only as he picked it up, meeting her uncertain gaze. “Vanity, ma’am,” was all he could think to say by way of explanation. Knowing he owed her more, he continued. “I am familiar with it. I admit I read it, only to know just how bad it was. I wish I hadn’t but…one can’t resist knowing.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile, or the attempt at one.

Victoria went to him instantly, pulling the book out of his hand and throwing it aside.

“Then I won’t look at it. Emily was right, we should have burned it.”

“Emily knew it fell into your hands? I wish she would have mentioned it, so I might have been prepared and…spared you my ill temper.”

“Can we just forget it, please? I don’t want to know what…what went on then. I wish I didn’t know what I already did.”

“Victoria, there’s nothing in there you don’t already know. You heard the worst. I only…the whole thing made me appear quite foolish. You have no idea what it’s like to have intimate matters which ought never see the light of day, talked about by every bootblack and butcher. I do. Twice over. I can deal with the rest but would prefer you not see me in such an unflattering light. Vanity, you know.” He hesitated. “May I ask how you came into possession at this late date? Is there still such an interest?”

Victoria explained succinctly what she surmised, and how she planned to deal with the offender.

“Never mind then. It’s a beautiful day, in an otherwise miserable summer so far, and I believe we have Ascot later?”

“We do. Shall we take Liam? He might like having us to himself for a change.”

“He might. Our son does not enjoy crowds, but if his soldier is amongst our protectors he will feel safe.”

“He will feel safe because his father is there,” Victoria corrected firmly. The child had been beside her when she’d been shot and wounded by an assassin three years earlier, and the former cavalry officer had disarmed their assailant. “I thought Cameron was beyond such mundane service.”

“Cameron? You misjudge him, ma’am. I doubt he’ll ever think himself beyond serving you.”

Melbourne smiled appreciatively when Victoria rolled her eyes for dramatic effect and waived her hand dismissively. He was equanimity itself when the _chevalier_ was mentioned, but still he kept an eye on the situation. He had learned, he’d once had need to reassure someone, how to protect his interests and with this fairy princess, his most prized possession, he was not a careless husband.

**

The relentless June rains had held off, and if the air was chilly for summer, it was warm and bright enough that the ladies felt safe in showing off their finery, the gentlemen their morning suits.

All eyes were on the Royal Enclosure, and cheers erupted when the Queen appeared. Victoria entered first, resplendent in turquoise watered silk to be easily seen by the crowd, followed closely by her husband the Viscount Melbourne – always an especial favorite amongst the common people – and another couple, the gentleman towering above all others, his bulk nearly obscuring the small boy who walked beside him, and the Queen’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Kent. She was another favorite of the people and smiled to the left and right as her name was called out. These were followed by those guests honored to join the Queen in her box.

As had become almost a tradition, some wit in the crowd called out _Mrs. Melbourne_ – in annual replaying of what Lady Lichfield had intended as a slur in 1839 – and as she did every year since the first, Her Majesty beamed in the direction of the voice, waving her small gloved hand in acknowledgement before laying that same hand on Lord Melbourne’s arm.

Some had gossiped about the pair early on, and a few even intimated that their very young untried Queen was being taken advantage of by a shrewd politician. In the years since 1837, those fears had proved unfounded. Pundits observed that Melbourne was no shrewd politician, nor did he act from self-interest in his tender regard for their queen, and she in turn so openly adored him that no one could doubt theirs a love match for the ages. Even those who considered his age a barrier were more likely now to indulge in bawdy, good-humored respect for his prowess than condemnation.

Melbourne concealed his distaste for public notice behind his habitually genial expression, and he bent often to point out various sights to the Prince of Wales. A constant stream of visitors to the Royal Enclosure only partially diverted his attention, and his primary focus was on the boy, providing subtle encouragement, grateful for the fence enclosing the space in front of the Royal box to prevent at least the unruliest of spectators from pressing closer. When Melbourne’s nephew had the happy thought of going down to the paddock to see the horses, Liam eagerly assented to this plan.

Relieved to be away from the direct public scrutiny which came with proximity to the Queen, he lifted his small son high so he could clearly see the animals being walked back and forth by their jockeys. Since 1840, when an 11-year-old boy had ridden in the race with no one the wiser, jockeys now were highly trained and proud of their professionalism. No gambler himself, Melbourne listened to Palmerston and Will Cowper bandy about the names of favorites. Liam seemed much more entranced by the sight of the companion animals walking beside their more high-strung friends, placid geldings, donkeys, even a goat amongst the menagerie.

Watching his boy closely, Melbourne reflected not for the first time that this child would always find public duties a trial. So much like himself, Liam was sweet, sensitive, and intensely uncomfortable in the public spotlight. He knew that over time the boy would have to develop his own defenses, his own ways of coping with the challenges his destiny had in store, but couldn’t help making the comparison between this child, so much more at ease in a private setting, easily pleased by books, drawing and patient conversation, and his bold, gregarious younger sister.

Whether their mother understood and agreed or not, Melbourne considered the best legacy he could give his beloved children was to spare them association with his name and the scandals attached to it. From his own doubtful beginnings, most likely the natural son of a man other than his mother’s husband, to the early scandal of his tumultuous marriage – a hundred years from now, he feared he would be known first as the cuckolded husband of Caroline Lamb – to the debacle of the Norton trial, he knew that this shy boy who would be King must be spared the burden of William Lamb’s name and reputation. No, it was far better that King William V be known only as the son of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha.

Victoria, attended by her mother, presented the Gold Cup to Lord Abermarle at the end of the race while Melbourne watched proudly from their box. There would be a champagne reception following the event, attended last year by the visiting Russian Emperor, and the Queen would be surrounded by a crush of people wanting to be seen in the company of the sovereign. Deciding quickly, Melbourne beckoned Cameron over and told him of his intention to return to Windsor with the Prince. Cameron, dressed in the formal attire required for Ascot, appeared more courtier and less rogue than he normally did, the intent of course to disguise his status as guard of the Queen’s person. The normal detachment of Household Cavalry held their formation at a distance, while Cameron or one of the men and women under his supervision would remain discreetly at her side throughout the course of every event and appearance.

He and his son had nearly reached the waiting carriage when Melbourne turned back once more. Victoria was standing in the midst of a small group of well-wishers, and he paused a moment to watch the petite, graceful figure, seemingly so much at ease, smiling and addressing each in turn. He saw the tall figure of Cameron, unusually elegant in his formal attire, bend from his greater height to address her – presumably, Melbourne thought, bringing word that her husband and son had departed. She turned her face up to his, her own expression open and friendly and devoid of that pleasant detached mask she showed others. As Melbourne watched she laughed at something the man said, and laid her hand on his arm.

Unreasonably annoyed – it was, after all, his decision to bring Cameron along on this excursion, and his decision to leave – Melbourne turned away and climbed into the landau with his son.


	21. Chapter 21

* * *

 

_Deckel the dachshund arrived in England in 1845 and became the first dachshund to hold a strong place in The Queen's affections_

* * *

The King’s Bedchamber at Windsor Castle was a garish vision in red plush and gilt. A nightmarish vision, Melbourne often thought, but as in most other matters, the Palace machine was so entrenched, its wheels turned so slowly, that taking up residence had in the end been easier than refusing. During the years Albert had been Consort he had used this apartment to host his _salons_ at Windsor, preferring a more distant apartment for his nocturnal activities.

Melbourne, determined to leave as small a footprint as possible to avoid stirring up opposition to his marriage, made no changes. In truth, he cared little enough about his surroundings during the day and the furor which erupted in several Ministries when he inquired about less imposing alternate accommodations had quickly extinguished his interest. The Queen occupied the Queen’s Chamber and her Consort, the King’s, as he was informed by the steward and chamberlain, and the Department of Woods and Forests would have to review any requested alteration.

In addition to the hideously overwrought spaces with twenty-foot gilded ceilings and décor he considered more fitting to a brothel, Melbourne had inherited Albert’s Lords-in-Waiting. He was privately thankful that Victoria’s young husband had insisted on appointing to these sinecures young gentlemen of his acquaintance, most of them well-born younger sons who shared his inclinations. While it was amusing at best, he preferred these roles remain filled by the flamboyant, effeminate young men who had no other prospects, than face the task of appointing those of his peers who would feel entitled to occupy any opening.

Marriage to a Queen Regnant had entailed every bit as much embarrassment and awkwardness as he had expected, and other than the obvious advantage of the girl he loved being his to have and hold, it was a thoroughly distasteful business to any man not reared with such expectation. He coped by remaining William Lamb, genial, nonchalant, viewing it all with objective humor and shrugging off the inevitable constraints pomp and protocol imposed when he could.

Even those of his friends who had been lifelong courtiers had taken some time to adjust to calling on their old friend Melbourne in the same lofty chambers George IV and William IV had occupied in their memory. In the end, it was far easier to dine at his club with friends or impose on the dowager Lady Holland to host, than expect casual visits at what was by necessity his home. South Street had been so much _easier_ , that he often regretted giving the place over to Cameron’s group.

Melbourne had served two monarchs, and been in daily attendance on the second, yet he had never fully appreciated the enormity of the immovable system which ruled every aspect of Victoria’s life until he had officially taken up residence as Consort to the Queen.  It was, he often thought, testament to her own indomitable character, that Victoria managed to survive the sheer weight of protocol with her individuality intact. His rare bird was indeed a prisoner of her gilded cage.

When Melbourne entered his apartment – the _King’s_ apartment - his immaculately tailored morning suit was muddied and wrinkled beyond hope of redemption. Liam padded along beside him, with dirty bare feet and a wide satisfied smile. They passed through the ornate State rooms to the smaller inner chamber. Here, he had been allowed to make some small changes, only by removing to storage the uncomfortable gilt Hervé armchairs and magnificent lifesize portraits of Victoria’s ancestors and replacing them with well-upholstered seating in subdued green velvet and brown leather, the Italianate marble writing table with a more serviceable and quite handsome Georgian mahogany desk. The only art on the wall in this private chamber was a painting of Victoria, not meant for public viewing.

Melbourne tossed his ruined coat aside, along with his son’s miniature version, and dropped into a chair. He examined the boy, still smiling a gap-toothed grin, clutching water lilies which would probably never see a vase, and gently wiped a smudge from his cheek.

“I think we must not worry the Baroness with tales of nearly falling into the pond,” Melbourne said, chuckling. “Perhaps there was a misplaced puddle to explain your disarray?”

Liam looked at him with limpid green eyes, so like those he saw in his mirror. “I must give Mama her flowers,” he reminded his father.

“May I have that honor, Your Highness?” Melbourne asked solemnly. The child considered his request before nodding.

“Papa, do not call me that please. I am your boy. I am not Your Highness.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I do not wish to be put to bed, like a _baby_. May I rest here with you instead? Until Mama arrives?”

Melbourne lifted the boy onto his lap and took the damp bundle from his small fist. Liam squirmed until he was comfortable against his father’s chest and closed his eyes.

When they returned from the races, Liam had regained his energy and enthusiasm and clamored to go to the park, clearly excited to have sole possession of his father. They had circled the far side of the formal gardens to the long rolling expanse of lawn which led to the Great Park when one of Victoria’s dogs inexplicably bounded up to join them. Deckel, the Dachshund puppy brought from Coburg with Feodora during her recent visit as a birthday present for the Queen, had speedily been adopted by Liam. The little dog’s elongated spine made him too fragile for Lily, who lost interest, and so the prince had been delighted to consider it his own. Melbourne looked about for any sign of an attendant – the little dog was only beginning the process of learning proper toilet etiquette – and then allowed Liam to bring him on their walk.

When they neared the larger of the ponds on the edge of the formal gardens at the far side of the middle ward the little dog had scampered off with some destination in mind and was soon lost in the reeds lining the bank of the pond. Liam followed him into the bushes and soon they were both lost from sight. While Melbourne was still debating whether to reclaim his son or wait for him to return he heard a high-pitched squeal and a splash, followed by distinctly feminine laughter and the shrill yapping of the little dog.

Tall graceful fronds grew up from the banks of the pond – they were in the well-manicured gardens of Windsor, and not in the wilds of Berkshire – and beyond, water lilies grew in abundance. Melbourne saw a flash of white that had to be Liam’s shirt. He walked around plantings tall enough to obscure the sight of a five-year-old child, but parted easily enough for him.

Melbourne had found Liam standing at the edge of the pond, too close for safety, mud oozing up around his shoes, as the small dog he’d been following stood his ground and barked with puppy ferocity.

Several of Victoria’s maids of honor had clearly taken advantage of the Queen’s absence, and stood in the water up to their knees. Liam’s arrival had presumably been the cause of the shrieks he had heard, although they seemed less discomposed than amused when he arrived on the scene.

It had made a pleasing tableau and Melbourne smiled, thinking how tempting it must have been for them to escape the rather strict rules of decorum Victoria imposed on her household on a day when they reckoned their misdemeanor would go unnoticed. Knowing themselves caught, their expressions varied from contrition to fear to a certain sauciness from one rather bold beauty. Lovely girls, Victoria’s age or even younger, their hair tumbling down in damp ringlets, shoulders bared under the summer sun, legs on display where skirts were hiked up to keep them out of the water.

“Ladies,” Melbourne said, “I believe we’ve disturbed your bathing.”

One by one the girls stepped out of the water, with many more shrieks and no little laughter as the mud at the bottom of the pond sucked at their toes. The boldest of them, a dark-haired beauty Melbourne found vaguely familiar, extended her long slender white hand like a princess might.

“Lord Melbourne,” she said his name with a pleasant drawl reminiscent of the Devonshire house set he had known in years past, many more years than this young woman had been alive.

He just touched the tips of her fingers, inclining his head in the vaguest of nods. “You are one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting?”

Her lips had twitched with suppressed laughter which Melbourne returned, conceding his statement had been a rather inept response.

“My mother would expect me to send her fond regards,” the girl said, meeting his eyes. Her own were dark, liquid and quite pretty, he thought. _Familiar_?

“And your mother is -?”

“Was,” she corrected, still looking at him with near-unsettling directness and that teasing half-smile. No shy, shrinking miss, he reflected. “Lady Catherine Stanhope. I am Wilhelmina, now Lady Dalmeny. We have met before – I have been at Court since 1837. I believe you obtained my appointment as one of your first acts for the Queen. As a favor to my mother.”

Melbourne allowed a small smile to play about his lips, amused at her boldness and the challenge in her gaze. Of course, Wilhelmina, reputed to be the most beautiful girl at Court, and he thought those who would have it so were not far wrong. And her mother, ah, her mother. Catherine Stanhope had been a voluptuous beauty as well, one of those who shared in some rather exotic tastes. Catherine had aged, they both had, and come far since those enjoyable afternoons while Phillip was pursuing his interest in Kaspar Hauser. She had been dead these two years now, Melbourne suddenly remembered, offering condolences.

“Indeed, we all miss Mama. She left her correspondence in my care and someday I hope to write a book on it. She had such adventures, my mother. My aunt Hester is not the only female in our family with exotic tastes.”

Lady Hester Stanhope, amateur archaeologist and world traveler, was the aunt to whom she referred, another long-ago acquaintance of Melbourne’s.

Melbourne was both flattered and amused by this young woman’s flirtatious, assessing manner, and struck by her use of the same word which had occurred to him in connection with her mother.

Liam had succeeded in picking up the small yapping hound and falling seat-first into the pond all at once. Melbourne recollected himself and turned to pick up both child and dog.

“Lady Dalmeny,” he bowed, despite having his arms full of wet boy and dog. “Ladies,” he turned slightly to include the other girls, standing forgotten to one side.

In the quiet of his private chamber, holding his sleeping son in his arms, Melbourne permitted himself a small satisfied smile. The girl had definitely been flirting with him, he decided. _Has it been so long that I could be mistaken? I think not._

**

The Royal carriages returned in procession as they had set out, the Queen riding with the Earl and Countess of Bessborough, the Duchess of Kent with the Palmerstons and Earl Grey in another, and two more carriages carrying those lords and ladies who held positions of honor at court, followed by the carriages of those who were invited to dine at the palace. Lord Cameron, dressed to blend in with the other guests, nevertheless refused to ride in a carriage and instead trotted along behind the Queen’s coach, in tandem with two of the mounted Guard.

Her guests would spend the night at Windsor, the sixteen miles deemed inhospitably far to travel for those who returned to their London houses to await the adjournment of this Parliamentary session. There would be a dinner with dancing after, ample time allowed for those who had spent the day out of doors to rest before dressing for dinner.

Victoria was momentarily disappointed to find her own apartment empty, but determined to take advantage of the seclusion to deal with an unpleasant necessity. She turned to Cameron and sent him to find the person with whom she needed to speak.

When Viscount Palmerston came in, his hair was in disarray from the breezes of the day, and he laughed when she caught him smoothing it with his hands. He came forward and dipped a knee, bowing to kiss her hand.

“Rather formal, Lord Palmerston, considering we’ve spent most of the day in one another’s company,” Victoria observed, just the hint of a smile playing about her lips.

“Your Majesty does me too much honor. I fear I am about to be rebuked and wish to conserve as much grace as I may for what is to come.”

He glanced carelessly at the man who had summoned him and still stood near the door, and nodded the briefest of dismissals. Victoria compressed her lips, annoyed at his audacity in dismissing her guard, but said nothing, only indicating with a look that it was her wish he leave them.

“Really? What should I rebuke you for?” Victoria arched her brows, no longer smiling, toying with him. She held in that day’s dispatch box a report from Aberdeen’s Foreign Office that showed her irrepressible brother-in-law had been meddling again.

“Henry, Hardinge tells us you’ve been at it again. Ellenborough warned you were in almost constant communication with commanders in the field and now a letter from you to Broadfoot encouraging his aggression? We can not take the Punjab; we can not hold it, I am told. Not with seventeen thousand men. What on earth are you about?”

“Victoria, I don’t know what Peel is telling you but if someone doesn’t encourage Broadfoot to do what he must – and he’s a good man, he needs to know that the Crown supports him – we will lose what we have and if India goes, China will follow and Russia will have the East in their pocket.”

“Henry, I’m not debating strategy with you. I’d be a fool to try, and I’m no fool. I’m telling you that you can not meddle in foreign policy. Your party is out of office and you have no standing. You would have had no patience with such behavior from a member of the Opposition when William’s government was in power and you can’t expect Sir Robert to tolerate it now.”

“Peel? Or Aberdeen? The man’s an appeaser, Victoria, he’ll give the store away before we can return to take control. And he appeases all the wrong people.”

“Speaking of which – there’s one more thing. You are to cease all communication with Belgium. I repeat, you are not the Foreign Secretary yet and when you are – that alliance will be revisited, to determine exactly where and how far British interests lie regarding Belgium. I am not convinced that country, on the verge of bankruptcy and for sale to the highest bidder, has any strategic value whatsoever.”

Victoria knew she had grown more heated, and as a result expressed herself with less dignity and more fervor than was proper. Most infuriatingly, the tall man who stood before her was smiling…indulgently? Admiringly? She flushed and turned briskly away.

“That will be all. Tread carefully, sir. You do not represent the Crown and if you did, you would do better to determine our wishes before daring to speak on our behalf.” Victoria slammed the lid of the dispatch box closed and looked up once more, frowning to hide her confusion. “What?” she snapped.

“By God, William’s a lucky devil. I hope he knows just how lucky he is. Yes, dammit, I suppose he does but still, I must remember to tell him once more.”

“Lord Palmerston! You forget yourself. Our…family connection does not give you leave to forget the dignity of the Crown.”

Abruptly, he changed tactics, hanging his head in a show of contrition. “I apologize, Your Majesty. My devotion to the Crown causes me to get carried away. I accept my chastisement and will endeavor to hold my hands in patience until you call us to form a government again. Perhaps my turn will come next.”

“Your turn, Lord Palmerston?”

“My turn to be your First Lord, of course. To form a government at Your Majesty’s pleasure. Why, what else could I mean?” Victoria’s mouth opened to issue her sharpest rebuke yet, but seeing, instead of blatant disrespect, the sheepish, earnest eyes of a boy in this man’s body, she made a face. “Henry, you can’t set Whitehall in an uproar by meddling without authority. Please, do not make me have this conversation with you again.”

She held her hand out to him in a clear gesture of dismissal, wanting to be rid of him so she could have a reset and they could be cordial over dinner and dancing. They were, after all, family and she did not want any trace of this unpleasantness to linger and make Lord M uncomfortable. He always felt so responsible for Henry’s conduct, Victoria knew, and so helpless to control it.

Palmerston lifted the hand she offered and, in defiance of protocol, pressed it to his lips. He winked – _winked!_ Victoria noted with what should have been outrage, and instead was something like amusement – and turned on his heels to leave. She watched his tall figure depart, wishing she did not so easily respond to his incitement with unseemly, almost undignified temper, and again so readily forget his offenses in the face of his undeniable charm.

She went in search of her husband.

**

Lord Melbourne had already bathed and shaved and dressed for dinner and the dance to follow and went in search of his wife. Victoria was still in her boudoir, in the hands of her maids. They no longer displayed any sense of discomfort when the Queen’s husband lounged about, observing, offering his opinions when asked and often when not.

“What do you think?” Victoria met his eyes in the mirror. She wore a changeable silk, blue and green shades alternating, displaying her shoulders and a daring amount of cleavage. He had once – had it really been _seven_ years ago? – said she had lovely shoulders and she had considered that in every gown she’d worn since. For all his tenderness and care, he did not readily offer such specific compliments, and so she regarded every one. Her hair was piled on her head, in a seemingly careless arrangement of curls which permitted stray wisps to lay against her face, and she had chosen only colorless jewels, a magnificent diamond set. She turned her head one way, then the other, enjoying the sparkles cast by the jeweled ovals dangling from her earlobes.

Melbourne stared so long Victoria began to think something was amiss. She scrutinized her own reflection closely, beginning to frown.

“You are quite beautiful, ma’am. Surely you don’t need me to tell you? I think you are fawned over quite enough.” He was smiling though, and so she relaxed.

“I don’t attend to anyone’s opinions but yours, William,” she said softly. Looking at her dresser, she nodded impatiently, dismissing the woman.

“Do you really think so?”

“Must I tell you? I think I show you often enough that I find you very desirable.” He laid his hands on her shoulders and Victoria extended her neck, luxuriating in his touch.

“Desirable is not the same thing as…as beautiful. I am surrounded by beautiful girls, tall beautiful girls, as _décor_. It’s the tradition to have the most beautiful girls at Court but it makes me feel at a disadvantage. I know I can’t compete with them in that regard.”

Melbourne regarded her solemnly and then laughed, a little. “Ma’am, you are beautiful. I will tell you so more often, since you doubt it. And I would have you no taller. I quite like that you fit me just so.” He gently helped her rise and drew her into his arms, carefully so as not to disturb her ensemble. The top of Victoria’s head came to just under his chin, and he held her there.

“Now, ma’am, shall we join our guests? Whom do I have the honor of leading into dinner tonight?”

Protocol precluded him from escorting her when any prince of the Blood Royal was present, and she had not managed to circumvent the arrangement on State occasions. Then he was paired with one of her ladies or, if no one else of sufficient standing was present, with the Duchess of Kent.

“The Queen,” Victoria said firmly, laying her hand on his arm.


	22. Chapter 22

Viscount Melbourne stood against the wall, perfectly positioned to watch the dancers swirling about, to lounge indolently and exchange pleasantries with those who sought him out.

Melbourne thought little about the figure he cut, beyond ensuring that his ensemble was neat enough for the occasion. His tailor took no small satisfaction in hearing that no one’s coats fit better than the Viscount Melbourne’s, so exactly were they molded to his shoulders, his trousers and the knee breeches a formal occasion demanded precisely outlined the fine shape of his legs. Melbourne himself affected a careless indifference to his appearance which echoed the nonchalance of his manner.

This was a small dance, as such things were assessed at Court, with no more than fifty couples, and Melbourne was on familiar terms with everyone present. He had declined numerous invitations from cronies to escape to one of the card rooms, preferring to watch the floor and mingle with the Queen’s guests. _Their_ guests, he made the mental correction, still finding it a source of amused wonder, that he was host and not merely guest at Court functions.

Victoria took the floor with a changing cast of partners and watching her enjoy herself was a source of pleasure to her husband. Melbourne would give her a waltz later, but he was not overly fond of dancing when he could hang back and watch; conversing with old friends who sought him out, listening indulgently to the latest risqué gossip delivered in arch tones by ladies with whom he was on confidential terms, winning laughter with offhand _bon mots_ while sipping champagne, always peripherally aware of his wife.

There was no shortage of ladies with whom he could engage in the lightest, most stylized of flirtations, sophisticated well-born females with an innate sense of how the game was played. Such effervescent banter was as harmless as it was enjoyable when each knew exactly where the line was drawn. Many sent unmistakable signals they would happily cross that line, if he were so inclined. Melbourne, for all his rakish past, had always enjoyed the game as much as the prize, and now, of course, he would indulge no such inclination, a fact reluctantly respected by the females of his acquaintance.

That thought caused him to recollect the pretty young woman he’d encountered at the pond. Truthfully, he had not noticed her about the Court but when she called his attention to her position he conceded it was unlikely he could have missed her altogether.

Judging by the very particular way in which she had singled him out when she came into the ballroom earlier, young Lady Dalmeny was intent on furthering their acquaintance. Melbourne considered her no more than an especially decorative annoyance, but one who would bear watching, and not in the way she so obviously hoped.

“You seem to have caught her eye,” Charlotte Canning had observed, taking a champagne flute from the tray proffered and staring pointedly at the beautiful girl resplendent in rose pink chiffon. She wore a gardenia in her dark hair, Melbourne noticed, and watched him fixedly. He looked back at Charlotte.

“Indeed?” he said in a dry tone.

“A beautiful girl, and one who knows it. The females in that family must always make themselves stand out.”

“A pert girl,” Melbourne observed, his expression conveying distaste. As though knowing herself to be the topic under discussion, Wilhelmina Powlett, Lady Dalmeny, shook back her glossy dark curls and very deliberately crossed the floor towards them.

**

“You dance so well!” Victoria said spontaneously. The man who held her and guided her about the floor in a waltz looked down at her with his bold, speculative gaze. _Yet not frightening_ , she thought, _and not_ quite _improper. I feel quite safe with him_. Victoria depended upon her cultivated veneer of self-confidence to keep essential insecurity at bay, and she could think of no greater accolade for any gentleman than that – he made her feel safe in his presence. By that, she meant not physical safety, because of course there could be no greater safety than that of a Queen in her castle, surrounded by servants and armed guards, but social and emotional safety, the sense that she was in the company of someone who genuinely liked and appreciated her and saw the girl, not merely the crown. Other gentlemen gave her that same sense of security, Lord M of course, the Duke, and Albert when he was alive, even her rough protector, Lord Cameron. With Henry, one of her earliest ministers and friends, while he acted as familiar as a teasing older brother, she felt inexplicably _pretty_ in his presence.

“You say that as though you’re surprised. Do I strike you as clumsy otherwise? Did you expect me to tread on your feet?”

Victoria grinned sheepishly, so her dimples emerged. “Not at all. I didn’t mean – only that I do not waltz with other gentlemen – other than William – and did not know what to expect. We are so perfectly attuned, he and I.”

“Victoria, Victoria, you are so very young!” Palmerston grinned back at her, making her throw her head back and laugh.

“I am twenty-five, Lord Palmerston. That is not precisely _young_.”

“Inexperienced, then. Do you know how many other ladies of twenty-five have only ever waltzed with their husband? Why, if you were not the Queen one would say it was quite provincial of you. Certainly not what one would expect of a young lady brought out in the usual way in society.”

“I don’t want to waltz with anyone but my husband, thank you very much,” Victoria declared, more emphatically than her laughing eyes suggested.

“Not even with me? And I was growing quite conceited basking in your praise. You are cruel, ma’am,” Palmerston said with exaggerated feeling. Victoria laughed again, her face turned up, eyes shining, as they effortlessly moved together in time to the music.

**

“That one is trouble. Charlotte, surely you can dispatch her. Send her to her husband’s family for a holiday.”

Emily Temple, Lady Palmerston, had moved to her brother’s side after watching the interplay between William, foolish feckless William, and the tall brunette so clearly stalking him.

“I am not head of Her Majesty’s household, Emily. I cannot –“

“Charlotte, please. You will contrive. Now, I wish to spend some time with my brother before reclaiming my wayward husband.”

Lady Canning excused herself with good grace, leaving Melbourne in his sister’s company.

“Discourage it, William. Nip it in the bud.”

“Emily!” Melbourne protested. “I have no intention of doing otherwise. This is not a Tudor court. If I had any designs on anyone – which I most emphatically do not – it would not be a member of Victoria’s household.”

“I know,” Emily sighed, relenting. “I do know. Still, misunderstandings arise so easily. For instance, if I were not five-and-fifty…” Melbourne followed her gaze to the dance floor, where his pretty little wife stepped into his brother-in-law’s arms.

Victoria, having danced with Lord Stanley previously, took the floor for a second time with Viscount Palmerston. Melbourne glanced at his sister, who smiled indulgently and patted his arm.

“She can’t be in safer hands, William. Henry prefers his conquests simple and without complications.” Melbourne only cocked a brow, amused and not a little shocked at her bluntness. “I have no illusions. We love each other dearly, but boys will be boys.”

“Very…er, understanding of you, Em,” he commented mildly. “Truly, you don’t mind?”

“As long as he’s discreet and forms no attachments, why should I? I have his affection and his respect. I can afford to overlook a peccadillo here and there. But as I was saying…you need not fear for your little Vicky. It’s high time she learned those feminine arts most girls know at their coming out.”

“If you say so.” Melbourne shook his head slightly, for his sister was as incorrigible as she was irresistible. He hoped for her sake she meant what she said, about accepting her husband’s ever-roving eye. Briefly, he permitted himself to consider the other side of that sentiment. _Did Victoria understand Palmerston’s gregarious charm was part of his stock in trade? Did she find him attractive?_

Melbourne had always known that if he had a rival for her affections, it would be no rough young fellow like Lord Cameron. If Victoria ever looked to anyone other than him it would be someone _like_ him, a man of the world, a sophisticate, someone she could look up to and not a boy - no matter how handsome or well-endowed that _boy_ might be. Melbourne knew, with a great deal of tender protectiveness, that to a young woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders, the greatest gift he could offer was the benefit of experience she could take or leave at will. It was a delicate balancing act, and one from which all else flowed. _No,_ he thought, young men like Cameron might be well enough to look at – much like that doe-eyed strumpet in pink – but his queen needed so much more before she could lay down her dignity and allow herself to feel.

“I came earlier, in search of you, while she was meeting with him on business. You and the little prince were napping together. You looked so content.” Her usual bright, brisk tone had softened and to Melbourne’s surprise, thickened as well, until she cleared her throat.

“I had many reservations about this –“ she inclined her head in Victoria’s direction. “- fearing it would end badly for you but I think I was wrong. You are happy. She makes you happy?” Emily’s lovely gray eyes were tender, and Melbourne met her gaze with a soft smile.

“Oh, yes, Emily. She makes me very happy.”

“I thought you and Miss Eden would make a fine match. You were friends, you suited, and I considered a match based on shared interests, without passion, would give you peace. But I think it would not have made you truly _happy_ and you deserve that.”

A small fond smile played about Melbourne’s lips, amused because of his pragmatic sister’s unexpectedly maudlin tone.

“Such a match would not have made Miss Eden happy either. She once said she found me bewildering, and was shocked by my profanity,” Melbourne reminded her.  Emily laughed and waved away the notion any woman might remain unaffected by her beloved brother.

“Well, you don’t bewilder Vicky, clearly,” Emily continued. “She adores you, yet. Few romances are sustained at a fever pitch for as long as yours.”

“And yours, I daresay,” Melbourne referred to the many years she and Palmerston had been in love without benefit of matrimony.

“We are alike that way, you and Fred and I. Love matches for all of us and not one following the conventional path.”

“Indeed,” Melbourne replied absently, his eyes resting on Victoria as she moved about the floor, looking up at her partner, laughing, flushed with exertion and pleasure.

He and Victoria had reached the happy stage in their marriage where they needn’t remain tied to each other’s coattails all evening, and he was glad for it. Once, Victoria would have clung to his arm for an entire evening if he allowed it, snubbing her other guests, saving all her smiles for him alone. She had found her footing gradually, learning to unbend a trifle, modeling herself according to his easy manner. As she became more familiar with the characters who peopled her Court she was better able to put them and herself at ease. More often, it was he who sought her out now – not because he was a possessive husband, only a doting one, and soon found his interest in others wane. He was aware of wanting the ease and solace of his wife’s attention, craving the sheer delight he took in her company.

“William Lamb! You are positively mooning over your own wife. Attend to me, please!” Emily snapped her fan against his arm.

“’Mooning’?” Melbourne laughed gently. “I suppose I was. Did you want me to ask you to dance, Emily?”

“Not at all. I would like your attention. I don’t often admit I’m wrong, because I so seldom am, at least about matters of the heart. But in your case, I admit it freely.  Your love match, as ridiculous as it first appeared, is working out well. Miss Eden would not have given you the chance to be a father again. This time with a happier outcome.”

“If by ‘outcome’ you mean, the opportunity to perhaps guide and influence a future king…” Once again Emily waved off a response she clearly considered nonsensical.

“No, William, that is not what I meant – although of course, that brings great honor to all of us. What I meant is, those beautiful healthy, _normal_ children. I came in when you were holding the boy and I was overcome.” True to her words, Emily’s eyes welled with tears she brushed away impatiently.

Melbourne’s fondness for his sister prevented him from silencing her too abruptly but he was hopeful this subject, not fit for the Queen’s ballroom no matter how well-intentioned, had run its course. He glanced at the dance floor, wanting to keep Victoria in view so he could rejoin her. She had been on her feet for hours; surely, she would be happy of a rest, and he selfishly craved her undivided attention.

“When I think what you endured all those years, before finally, blessedly, you were released from that curse she laid on you, that poor deformed beast we all thought would go on forever, a millstone around your neck –“ Emily’s voice rose with the strength of her emotion. The music ended, and her voice was suddenly too loud.

“Emily….” Lord Melbourne’s voice was smooth and velvety, its habitual raspy tone muted as he tried to silence her.

Victoria was happily flushed when she joined them, waving a hand to fan herself. Palmerston raised a finger, beckoning a footman bearing champagne, and handed a glass to the Queen before taking his own. Melbourne turned slightly, ready to lead Victoria to the alcove where chairs had been arranged for the Queen and her party.

“You earned this peace and happiness in your life, William. What you suffered before – I know you thought I was overly harsh in wanting him put away, but to see you with that great shambling monster, attacking the maids, going into rages—well, I thank the Almighty you were released from your burden and given this new chance to –“

Melbourne stood very still, and then he turned back to Emily once more. He had not yet spoken when he felt Victoria’s small hand on his arm. Her touch was enough to bring him back to himself, away from the brink where he might have said something cutting to Emily, something that would make a breach in their relationship. She did not understand, she had never understood…and it saddened him that it was so.

“My son was never a burden, Emily. As his aunt I wish you could have seen that. If you’ll excuse me –“ Melbourne might have stalked away alone, to put distance between himself and his sister, but Victoria’s nearness recalled to him that they were always watched and he no longer had the luxury of going unnoticed.

“I am so very warm. Will you take me for some air?” Victoria’s sweet low voice was as welcome as cool water, and as soothing. He forced a small smile and offered his arm.

A brief shower had given way to the perfectly clear night sky overhead. Windsor, some fifteen miles from London proper, was distant enough from the city that they looked out over an empty vista. Melbourne leaned over the balustrade, staring into the distance, intent on calming his flash of temper.

“She made you angry?” Victoria asked, her voice low. When Melbourne looked at her over his shoulder, the expression in her wide blue eyes soothed him. _Always, that look of utter adoration._ Ignoring the few other couples taking advantage of the night air he laced his fingers at the back of her neck and kissed her gently.

“She made me angry,” he agreed, forcing a small smile. “But never mind that.”

She waited, inviting him to talk if he wished, content if he did not.

“I loved Augustus. No one understood. They saw only his deficits. His tempers, the seizures that wracked his poor body. His – ungovernable urges. A boy in a man’s body, so yes, he frightened the maids. I kept attendants around him, as did Caro when he was with her, but sometimes he evaded them and then there were incidents which…were regrettable. But in the end, it was only the two of us. Others tried to support me, to involve themselves in his care but I did not want others, no matter how well intended. He and I – he was all I really had to love.  I suppose in some ways I needed him more than he needed me. He was my anchor, and when I lost him I felt adrift.”

Melbourne realized belatedly that this was not ballroom conversation. He had expended wit and charm with a succession of acquaintances who mattered little, yet for his Victoria he would wallow in self-pity?

“Never mind that. Have you been well entertained?” He lifted her hand to his lips, the hand which wore his wedding band.  “You owe me a waltz, ma’am,” he tried once again to restore a proper tone of levity. “If your card is not filled?”

“I would like that. Otherwise I am quite content to sit and watch the dancers. You may tell me what you know of our illustrious guests. You always make them sound so much more interesting than they are otherwise.” She was so lovely, he thought with admiration. The rounded cheeks of her girlhood had refined into elegant angularity, and even the dignified reserve she showed others could not conceal the sensual expression of a woman who was well-loved. _I give her that_ , Melbourne realized. _No one else, I do._

“The last dance is mine, Mrs. Melbourne,” he said firmly, tucking her hand in his arm and turning to lead her back inside, thinking that loving her was the easiest thing he’d ever done, and the most wonderful.

**

The rest of the evening passed most pleasantly. The Queen was on display to all, as was expected, seated on the slightly raised, gilded chair which allowed her to see and be seen, and her most attentive husband remained at her side. Those who watched saw and even envied the ease with which the royal couple talked and sometimes laughed, the two of them leaning into each other as though a hundred people were not milling about. A handsome couple, was the general opinion, and so completely attentive to each other, nearly to the exclusion of all others.

Others of the Royal party came and went, the Duchess of Kent looking especially fine, preening herself, squired by Henry Howard in the absence of his Duchess. The Dowager Queen Adelaide, formerly of Saxe-Meininge, had deigned to make one of her rare public appearances and sat in a place of honor near the Queen.

Dancing went on until well past two. When the evening had finally wound down and everyone present had bowed and curtsied to the Queen a final time, Victoria was eager for the quiet of her own apartments, and Melbourne for the comfort of his bed – and his wife.

He left her in the hands of a pair of sleepy maids, doing their best to appear as though they had not just been awakened from uneasy sleep. When he returned in his dressing gown Victoria was slumped in her chair, lids heavy, as jewels were unclasped and hairpins removed. The maids were no longer embarrassed by the presence of their queen’s husband, moving with swift efficiency to complete their tasks. Melbourne lounged on the great State bed, hands folded behind his head, watching the process of dismantling her costume.

In a flimsy peignoir, hair loose and feet bare, Victoria waved off her maids and bounced onto the bed beside her husband with the exuberance of a little girl. She knee-walked into his arms and collapsed with a sigh of relief.

“My feet!”

Melbourne chuckled. “Did Henry tromp on them then? I thought he had better grace than that.”

“Oh – he’s a fine dancer, I suppose. And I danced with Lord Sulchester and –“ Victoria proudly recited the list of her partners. “Are you pleased?”

“’Pleased?’” His voice was roughened by the evening’s talking, and muffled by his lips pressed against her hair.

“You told me once how boring it is to dance only with one’s spouse, like a rector’s wife.”

“Surely I didn’t!”

“Oh, you weren’t talking about me, rather Lady Derby. But I remembered. I want you to be proud of me and I don’t want to cling and be tiresome.”

“How very foolish of me to make such an observation. Perhaps at the time I had no wife and didn’t think my words would be used against me.”

They continued to banter, each response growing increasingly disjointed as sleep crept up. Victoria turned onto her side, pillowing her head on Melbourne’s shoulder and laying a hand on his chest. He inhaled the fresh sweet scent of the rosewater used to rinse her shining dark hair, and felt her exhalations against his neck and his last thought before sleep claimed him was how perfectly, deliciously right it was to end the day in such blissful peace.


	23. Chapter 23

 Five and a half hours by carriage was little more than one by train, and the royal railcar was so luxuriously appointed, with every attention paid to the Queen’s comfort and convenience, that she almost didn’t mind the journey. _Almost_ , because as little as Victoria liked anything which separated her from her husband, she looked forward to this simple excursion even less. As she was taken onto the train Victoria thought wistfully that a quiet weekend at Brocket Hall would have been far more appealing than this visit to the garish palace she had loathed at first site.

Victoria had felt out-of-sorts, irritable, headachey and vaguely nauseous, for the past several days and blamed it on the weather. It was easy enough to blame the unusual heat which had descended after a cold, wet spring and three weeks’ near-constant June rain. There was much sneezing and coughing all around and Victoria was grateful she showed no sign of coming down ill with the ague that seemed to be prevalent. A headache and some queasiness could be managed and the rest attributed to the probable onset of her irregular courses. Since Lily’s birth these had only come several times a year, at no predictable interval, and entailed such unpleasantness she was grateful her affliction lasted only a few days rather than the week her ladies complained of.

The triumphal arches and a great amphitheater had been erected outside the gate and these had been filled with raucously cheering crowds when the Queen’s train approached. Victoria knew her role well and stood on the rear platform of the train where she could be clearly seen, smiling and waving. The Prince of Wales stood at her side, copying her movements, and if his hand trembled in hers Victoria was doubly proud of him for conquering his sensitive nature and concealing how difficult such a display was for him. The presence of his soldier, the tall lanky fellow who protected them, gave him the courage to smile and wave as his mother did.

In a note to her husband, the Queen wrote, “I was received in a most enthusiastic warm and friendly manner by an immense concourse of people. It was a beautiful reception and most gratifying and flattering. There were Triumphal Arches on all sides, and an amphitheater was erected outside the gate of the Pavilion, filled with people.” She said little else; there was no need, and she did not want to trouble him with her malaise, or her longing for his presence. Her signature was simply, “Yours, V”.

   

Lady Jocelyn had delayed her appearance only until the Queen was settled. She could restrain the little Princess no longer and when they were brought into the Presence, Victoria was warmed by the enthusiasm with which the little body hurled against her. Lily gave and accepted kisses and embraces and climbed onto her mother’s lap without prompting. Only after her first exuberant glee calmed did she look around and ask the inevitable.

Fearing one of her daughter’s emotional outbursts, Victoria was relieved to see only a downcast expression and sudden silence, the more notable because few were accustomed to the seeing the little princess subdued and quiet. As quickly as her feeling of relief came, it faded. Victoria was suddenly struck by the realization – she had never looked at it quite that way before – that this little girl was a person in her own right, and loved William Lamb as desperately as she herself did.

“I am sad that he could not come today too,” she whispered softly in her daughter’s ear. “But he will be here soon, tomorrow or the next day. Can we take care of each other while we wait?”

Victoria asked to be shown about the Pavilion once more, to see what changes had been made. She knew the history of the pleasure palace well from the formal instruction given her and considerably augmented by Lord M’s far more colorful anecdotes.

The Prince Regent had originally come to Brighton with Mrs. Fitzherbert and his favorites likewise considered the prince’s retreat a place to indulge every form of excess. In story, their exploits were amusing and horrifying in equal measure; in reality, Victoria was excessively uncomfortable lending such a place the dignity of royal favor in her far different reign.

Henry Holland had greatly expanded the original house into what was known as the Marine Pavilion. Lord M’s close friendship with the Hollands had given him a better than average insider’s view to the project and he had maintained the connections made so that even now, in his work with the Fine Arts Commission determining the interior design of the new Parliament, they were well-represented. Construction was ongoing and when Nash took over in 1815, the Marine Pavilion was expanded even more, to rival the lavish stables which dwarfed the palace. Minarets, domes and towers created the fairy tale exterior and within, no expense had been spared. Victoria looked longingly at the gardens, wishing she could escape the stifling confinement of the interior.

The chief steward who took her through showed off with pride every aspect she had failed to note, or been too young to appreciate, on her previous visits, even to the new gadgets supplied for the kitchens. Gas lighting illuminated the stained windows from the outside. Local springs ensured easily available supplies of water and the royal apartments in the south wing were provided with a fitted and fully plumbed bathroom. Flushing water closets had been installed throughout the palace.

A great gallery awash with light under to the glass domed ceiling overhead, was the final stop on Her Majesty’s impromptu tour. While the rest of the palace had been unpleasantly warm the heat in this space was so overwhelming it took Victoria’s breath away. Thinking her reaction one of awe, the steward kept talking, describing the ironwork cunningly crafted to look like bamboo and elaborating at great length on the central canopy hung with bells, the chimney piece and recesses containing Chinese porcelain pagodas. Walls were covered in canvas painted with outdoor scenes, stained glass lanterns burned, casting a fiery glow from their scarlet sconces, and innumerable niches contained statuary depicting fantasy beasts, all swirled together in an unpleasant kaleidoscope.

Victoria had found it increasingly difficult to attend and her eyes ached from the strain of taking it all in. She tried to inhale and was prevented by the oppressive heat, while her stays bit painfully into her ribs until she thought she might go mad and begin tearing off her garments in a desperate search for relief. The image of doing this made her want to laugh, and she wished William was at her side to share her amusement. _He would find a way to make all this bearable. He always finds the humor in every situation_. That was the last clear thought she had before the room began to swirl nauseatingly.

Without looking about, Victoria sat down hard on one of the black and white couches. She looked down, struggling to remain upright.  Only two of her ladies-in-waiting were with her, neither of them ones she was particularly close to, and her only thought was to maintain her dignity and conceal this weakness at any cost.

“Your Majesty? Shall we continue?”

**

Melbourne did indeed have several engagements in town, but he had been prompted to delay his departure by the simple, if strategic, plan to allow Victoria to reunite with their daughter alone. He hoped that after two weeks’ separation from her parents, Lily would turn to her mother for consolation. Having grown up with older and younger siblings and a mother who, although affectionate and doting, was often away, he did not especially regard a three-year-old’s transient favoritism worthy of serious concern. But he knew Victoria had little experience sharing a parent’s attention or, in fact, in sharing the spotlight at all. He also knew, and cherished, her near single-minded devotion to him and thought it sweetly ironic that their own daughter should be equally insistent on having his undivided affection. The best he could do was maintain his distance just a while longer to give them that time together.

After the Queen and her party left Windsor, Melbourne had prepared to go into London. He had an engagement to dine at Brooks’ that evening, in a bespoke private parlor so his guest might avoid attracting the speculation inevitable if he were seen with Viscount Melbourne. He’d sent his valet ahead, with the equerries and those few gentlemen assigned to his household who had opted to join the Brighton party, so his apartments and the family wing were quite deserted.

In London he had met with the Arts Commission, or those who were still in town, to sign off on the statuary and murals for which they had contracted, even that damnable depiction of Lady Liberty which would last far longer than any one of them. He had gone from Westminster to South Street, to call on Elizabeth Holland in the small house she rented from Palmerston. She was delighted to see him as always, and made much of him, and they had spent enjoyable hours in her small garden reliving the days of her glory, as premier political hostess of the most celebrated _salon_ in London. From there he had made his way to the venerable Brooks’ Club, and it was with the most infinitesimal sense of a schoolboy holiday that he had sauntered down St. James, the evening stretching ahead of him unfettered by any expectation.

Brooks was sparse of company but he found a few familiar stalwarts, those single gentlemen who remained in town rather than sojourn to empty country houses and a few others in circumstances so straightened as to preclude even a few weeks away from the heat and stench of a summer in London. Melbourne exchanged greetings with those who remained and settled in the Reading Room with that day’s papers. A note had been left for him, a brief scrawl from one who had assured him he would remain back until Melbourne himself removed to Brighton, and it caused a momentary pang. Palmerston had written of his impatience to join his wife and Lady Jocelyn’s brood and provided assurance that he would look out for _our girl_ in Lord Melbourne’s stead. He knew his brother-in-law’s heavy-handed playfulness, and assumed the ire he felt had been that man’s intent.

Since they were boys at Eton, then young men at Cambridge, Henry John Temple had always been the sort of big, gruff, outgoing fellow whose nature and manner were diametrically opposite William Lamb’s. It was always Henry who particularly nudged Melbourne with a friendly, fraternal sort of playful one-upmanship. He had behaved much the same when serving in the Melbourne government, going just beyond the limits of what was acceptable. On the rare occasions Melbourne felt he must assert himself Palmerston always responded with a great show of chagrin and assurance he had meant nothing by it, whatever offense _it_ was. Palmerston’s early rivalry for the affectionate regard of their new queen was one of the few contests he had lost and Melbourne suspected underneath the show of bonhomie, it still grated.  Not that he had any serious intention in that direction – any more than Melbourne himself had at the time.

He folded the note and put it into an inner pocket, thinking that perhaps he would answer in the same humor it had been written.

At the appointed hour, Lord Melbourne removed to the private dining room he had arranged and was soon joined by his guest, Mr. Charles Dickens, the young journalist and author.

Melbourne had lingered long over port and then a fine French cognac, finding Mr. Dickens an amusing fellow, capable of the sort of wit and stimulating conversation which had become something of a lost art as the prior generation faded from prominence. While the fellow was independent and not amenable to even the most delicate attempt to lead him, he took copies of those documents Melbourne provided, listened with fascination to a description of the contents – no isolated, single source of scandal, the former Prime Minister emphasized, merely a condition of society and the government which could, perhaps, with great care and some public pressure, be brought out into the light for examination.

It had been after midnight when he ran lightly up the stairs, displacing only a handful of footmen who remained on duty. The corridors were empty, and although they would naturally be so at this hour of any night, there was something almost eerie about the sound of his footfalls on the marble of an uninhabited palace. Those halls he passed down seemed, by some trick of the dim light, to stretch on into eternity, like a mirrored illusion expanding time itself.

 _A castle without a Queen_ , the words chimed in his mind nonsensically. Emptied, not only of the Queen, but of her chattering attendants, the bevy of ladies who followed her in a bright perfumed procession, of those lords-in-waiting who lounged about, as habitually useless and unoccupied as they had been in Albert’s day. Melbourne let himself into his own apartment and went directly to his bedchamber. All at once he was weary of his schoolboy’s holiday, and desperately missed not only Victoria, his precious Victoria, but the children, the maids, the dogs and equerries and the whole household apparatus that kept him from ever being this alone.

He stripped off layers of clothing and got into bed wearing only his shirt, finding the expanse of empty bed ridiculously vast. His head buzzing pleasantly from spirits and fatigue, he rolled over onto his side and willed himself to sleep. The morning meant he would soon on his way to Brighton.

 

 _His surroundings were familiar, of course they were. Not merely Brocket Hall, but_ that _Brocket Hall, the one which was the same in so many ways, yet was unspeakably, unbearably different. His chair, his books and papers, his clutter on the desk, but overall a faint air of desolation and decay. It even smelled differently, the stench of loneliness, of an old man left to wither away forgotten by time._

 _Except today was different._ She _had made the trip to see him. She was there, right there like a vision, a spectral image conjured by dark magic. That precious little face framed by her bonnet, the very same, or if different, in some imprecise way which defied definition. His dream-self struggled to stand, despising himself for his weakness, the trembling of palsy. He would not sit before his Queen even when she asked him to do so._

_His dream-Queen forced herself to smile but he could see it was false, could see the over bright glitter of those eyes which once looked up at him as though he was…something special to her. Now, she looked cautious, fearful, sad but also distant, as though he was already gone._

_He had lifted her hand to kiss it as he knew he must, and it felt real, solid, warm. He knew it was the last time he would ever see her, and so he lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, holding her small hand in both of his, inhaling the fragrance of her skin, memorizing the sensation of his lips touching her._

_She smiled then, sadly, false cheer shaping her features. Her own eyes were suddenly full of tears and she turned away before he could reach for her._

_When the door closed behind her, when her footfalls in his hallway grew distant and then silent, he sobbed. Great hoarse choking sobs which felt as though they might rip something loose within his chest, cries which wracked his body, shook his shoulders, doubled him over with a pain so intense he did not believe he could bear it and live._

Melbourne opened his eyes in the grip of a whole-body spasm so severe he feared it was a seizure, the onset of another apoplectic stroke. As it gradually relaxed its tortuous grip he flexed his hands and feet, testing, prodding. He _would not_ die here, as alone as he had seen himself in the dream. His eyes scanned the room, desperately seeking to anchor himself. _There_ , a delicate silk negligee she had left behind. _Here_ , in view of the bed, the very sensual painting Victoria had done for him as a gift on the anniversary of their wedding. And _yes,_ _still present_ , the gold wedding band he wore in her honor, setting his own fashion among the men of his age and station. Even a knotted piece of fabric the dogs Eos and Deckel played tug-of-war with just a few nights ago, while exiled from the Queen’s bed. _Her husband_. _I_ am _her husband. Nothing else is real._

No matter how desperately he inventoried the proofs of this reality, he felt that bottomless well of despair. The narrative of the dream scene was painfully clear – she had moved on without him, he had lived alone and would soon die alone, never having fulfilled the sole purpose of his life. As soon as the trembling ceased enough to permit him to stand, Melbourne pulled on trousers and stepped out onto the cool flagstones of the terrace in bare feet.

The night was almost eerily still. No distant sound marred the perfect silence. Melbourne wished desperately for some sign of life, some giggling housemaid sneaking out with her swain, an errant footman come home late from his leave. He stood at the parapet scanning the expanse of dark garden below, stilling his breath by sheer force of will. Even though it was night and he was utterly alone, he wiped the back of his hand roughly across both cheeks, drying the tears which had soaked his face. His breath still hitched, much as Lily’s did after a particularly strong emotional storm, and he leaned forward, resting his head on his hands forlornly.

Exhausted and emotionally spent, Melbourne later assumed he had been too deeply lost in thought to hear her footfalls; else, she had deliberately moved so silently that nothing disturbed the stillness until she laid felt a hand on his arm. The stood beside him in a light summer frock with a finely woven shawl draped loosely over bare arms. Her hair was long and loose, blowing lightly in a breeze that carried the scent of the Thames.

“Am I disturbing you?” It was phrased as a question that required no response. Seen close to, under the silvery white light of the moon, Melbourne had the random thought that she was not nearly so pretty as she first appeared. Her features were fine and regular but… _but_ , _she isn’t Victoria_. And, she didn’t look at him in that captivating way, as though she truly saw him. This girl saw only the reflection of herself. She seemed to enjoy his momentary scrutiny, he thought, and he shifted, increasing the distance between them.

“Not at all. I was just leaving.” His voice was hoarse and felt raw from crying, and he cleared his throat, unwilling to have her see weakness.

“You should go back to your quarters. I believe the Queen’s attendants are expected to walk in pairs, and not unattended.”

She stood hipshot, her shoulders thrown back to better display her bosom, and Melbourne nearly laughed aloud at such a pathetic overture. She seemed to recognize that he remained unaffected, and he wondered momentarily, with some curiosity, whether she would retreat or advance.

“I thought you might wish for some company. You looked so lonely.” _Advance then_ , Melbourne thought, and his lip curled in the beginning of a sneer. _End her pretensions now, before she embarrasses herself further._

“In that case, ma’am, appearance was deceiving. I have no interest in any company other than that of my wife.”

She laid her hand on his arm once more, where his shirtsleeve was turned back so that her palm was warm on his skin. Melbourne turned sharply and walked to the door without looking back. When he had reached it he turned back once more, and when he did his face was stern, his eyes cold.

“Do you go to Dalmeny House for the summer, ma’am?”

She appeared surprised at the question. “I have not yet decided. I do not care for Scotland.”

“There is nothing for you to do here. Her Majesty will not require your services. You have our permission to withdraw to your family home as soon as your travel can be arranged.”

He stepped inside and closed the French doors firmly behind him, turning the lock for good measure. _Ludicrous_ , he thought, locking the door against a chit of a girl. Still, he had dismissed one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, and questions would arise, if only because they were under the nominal supervision of the Mistress of the Wardrobes and my Lord Chamberlain. He thought her family would give no trouble, were she dismissed outright, so long as there was plausible cause – a Whig remnant, surely Peel had some good Tory girl he wanted in her place? – but perhaps it was easier to continue her sinecure and merely avoid placing her on the duty schedule. He made note to talk to Emma or Fanny about how such things were arranged. Melbourne looked at the clock and quickly calculated the hours until he could board a train for Brighton and join his wife.


	24. Chapter 24

_Royal Pavilion Entrance Hall_

Melbourne found himself exuberant, nearly giddy, at the prospect of seeing his wife again after a mere two days' separation. He was almost ashamed of the eagerness with which he craved her presence, the simplest touch of her hand, swish of her skirts as she passed by him, the light floral fragrance she wore. He was surprised by the strength of his longing for the sheer vibrating life force Victoria emanated, to banish any lingering trace of sense memory from that dream world and what it had felt like to be trapped in the body of a bitter old man.

The busyness of the Court followed the Queen wherever she went and doubtless she would be unable to attend to him properly, but that was as it should be and he would content himself to stand on the periphery and watch her neat efficiency, to admire the self-contained economy of movement with which she executed her duties.

On reaching the Pavilion and entering by the formal Eastern entrance –his driver knew no other means, save that of the kitchens, and he considered it unthinkable to take my lord to the tradesmen’s door – Melbourne was met by servants who seemed to have no idea who he was or where to put him. He was left standing in a gallery intended to receive visitors and only hint at the wonders beyond. Melbourne recalled his first visit, as an adolescent accompanying his mother, and subsequent visits as a young man transfixed by the atmosphere of heady sensuality and outright decadence.  

After several long minutes someone found someone who, nonplussed, turned the matter over to the Baroness Lehzen, who had on the Queen’s behalf assumed management of a staff more accustomed to being unsupervised. The Baroness came hurrying into the main entrance way followed by a cluster of gaping sentries, footmen and housemaids, hissing a diatribe in heavily accented English, of which Melbourne understood little more than _the Queen’s husband_ and _you fools_. Melbourne dismissed her concerns and thanked her for intervening.

“The security was inexcusably lax. Townspeople and those on holiday simply wandered in to look about and no one did anything save collect money and sell lemonade and souvenirs. Lord Cameron gave orders no one can enter when the Queen is in residence, unless they are on a list with an appointment. Obviously, this did not mean you --” her voice trailed off, to Melbourne’s amusement.

“-or he hoped I might be discouraged from attending the queen without an _appointment_?” The Baroness stopped herself before returning his playful, quizzing smile.

The Queen was not on the premises. She had gone to visit Lord and Lady Jocelyn at their leased seaside home. Unlike the Royal Pavilion, set in several landlocked acres in the middle of the city, the Jocelyns had been fortunate to find a spacious home for hire on the Marine Parade with a section of bathing beach which could be easily fenced off from view to give Her Majesty privacy.

Fanny’s leased house was commodious and airy. Plainly furnished, the lack of ornamentation, light neutral colors, and the cooling sea breezes blowing through opened windows provided a relief for senses battered by the Royal Pavilion. When he stepped out onto the wide rear veranda, Melbourne slung his jacket over his shoulder and rolled up his sleeves. The air, although pleasantly refreshed by ocean currents, was as excessively warm as it had been in London, perfect weather for sea bathing and little else.

Under the careful watch of several attendants, three little girls paddled in the shallow water. His gaze next fell on Victoria… _ah, Victoria!_ Melbourne watched her from a distance, hungrily taking in every familiar mannerism, the way in which she always held a hand in front of her mouth when she laughed, the tilt of her head, her long elegant neck set above lovely bared shoulders. She wore some simple close-fitting gown and a broad-brimmed woven hat, and looked impossibly young and fresh. She was seated amidst a group of ladies on low beach chairs and Palmerston sat beside her, turned to face her, and appeared to be speaking with great animation. Melbourne was mildly annoyed for the second time in less than an hour, on this occasion by that expression of rapt attention which he knew so well, now directed at another man. He chided himself, wondering at what point he had become such a possessive, overbearing husband.

Melbourne strolled at a leisurely pace over the hard-packed sand. He kissed hands with his queen, laid his lips on the soft cheek of his wife, bowed to those others present and evicted his brother-in-law from the chair he had so recently occupied beside Victoria. She laid her hand over his where it rested on the arm of his chair and he was content, secure in proximity to _her_ , grounded once more by his senses, the feel of her skin, pungent smell of the sea, heat of the sun on his face.

“Where’s Liam?”

Victoria pointed out at the open water. At first Melbourne saw nothing; then his eyes made out a swimmer in the far distance, moving with strong sure strokes through the surf. When the figure drew closer he could see a small shape clinging to broad shoulders.

“Is he safe out there?” He was a trifle surprised that she would permit a small boy so far from shore. _There were undercurrents surely? How deep was the ocean at that point?_

“Lord Cameron is a tremendously strong swimmer. Liam was at first so very afraid of the water but look! He overcame his fear.” Victoria smiled reassuringly. “He is quite safe with Lord C.”

Sometime later Cameron emerged from the water looking, Melbourne observed fancifully, like a mythic sea god. _The fellow was ridiculously well-built._ He and Palmerston, the only other gentlemen present, exchanged sardonic looks when the ladies’ heads swiveled. All except Victoria’s, he saw with satisfaction. After a brief glance, her eyes went to her son, running to greet his father, and when he lifted the boy onto his lap Melbourne basked in the warmth of his family about him.

They lingered a while longer, all of them more reluctant to make the effort to leave than they were desirous of staying. Even Lily and her cousins eventually abandoned their play and retreated to the laps of mothers or nurses. When they finally rose, gathering parasols and unused shawls, brushing sand from themselves and the children Melbourne hung back, allowing the others to go ahead.

Cameron was drying himself briskly with a towel, his back to the others when Melbourne approached. He said just a few words to him, in the drawling Devonshire House accents anyone familiar with the Melbourne social set in the '90s would have recognized, all the while smiling gently. He received little in the way of response but was gratified by the look of surprise, followed quickly by a shuttering of the younger man's habitually carefree expression. Melbourne nodded agreeably and strolled back up to the house toward his wife.

Melbourne was shown to his own apartment, near but not adjoining the queen’s. The daily dispatches from London had found her, and if she went through those expediently she might have time to join him before dinner, he hoped. He was weary, from the heat and the troubled night he had passed, but was reluctant to lay down alone. Since those dreams had begun in the aftermath of the madman’s assassination attempt, he had grown adept at pushing them away during waking hours. They came seldom enough, thankfully, that he had been mostly able to do so, but this last one refused to be so easily dismissed. He was sure he had come close to seeing his own death, and then what? Would he die here, in synchrony? Is that what they meant? Were they omens, harbingers, some sort of future-seeing?

Melbourne had little interest in religion except as philosophy and literature. It was a good and necessary adjunct to his young Queen but to him, meant nothing. He’d read all the early Fathers, comparing and contrasting their writings to that of Plato, Socrates, a dozen other classical masters, without ever considering that what he read had more bearing on his own life than the Gypsy fortune teller at a village fair. Their context was easy enough to comprehend, the path not taken, the life he would be living if not for a sequence of improbable _what ifs_. _What if Adelaide had presented William with a living heir_? _What if he was not First Lord when Princess Alexandrina became Queen Victoria?_ _What if_ – the biggest, most imponderable variable – _she had not been bold and determined enough to pursue him when duty made him push her away?_

The one question which was never posed, the one _what if_ that was impossible to contemplate, was _what if_ they had not been so inexorably drawn to one another? That, for Melbourne, was an impossibility; their connection had been too strong, too immediate, too undeniable and in some strange way, too deep, as if they already knew each other and were only waiting to meet again.

He must have dozed off, arm over his eyes, for when he opened them Victoria was sitting beside him, gently raising his arm. Her cool hand stroked his face with gentle fingers, and her thumb flicked against the soft skin beside his eyes. Melbourne saw the shadow of concern behind her loving expression, and suspected he had been weeping while he slept. He slid his hands up her bare arms and pulled her down beside him. Kissing her, feeling her lips part under his, hearing her soft little sigh and whimper as she melted into his embrace, Melbourne stirred. He reached around her back to unlace her dress. She remained soft and pliable in his arms, but they were so completely attuned something told him she was not prepared so instead he nestled her against him and let his hand fall to the coverlet. She picked it up and placed it against her breast.

“We don’t have to, my love. Let me hold you,” he whispered. “Mmm…. feels so good to hold you.”

They lay quietly, breathing in unison. Victoria laid her own palm on his stomach but moved no further, and he was content to have it so. _This_ , he thought, resting his chin on the top of her dark head. _This will always be enough_.

**

While they lay in the shadows in one another’s arms Melbourne made a stab at telling her about the recurring nightmares. He made sure his voice remained light, whimsical, unconcerned but something of the awful drag of despair certainly leaked through, for Victoria raised herself on an elbow and studied him with concern.

“Mere foolishness, my darling. I’m too old to wake in the night calling for you like a child, or fear sleeping alone. Even Lily has nearly outgrown that stage.”

“Perhaps she does not cry out for me, but she will never outgrow crying for you,” Victoria reminded him. “Nor will I.”

She used the very tip of her index finger to smooth his eyebrow and trace the line of his cheekbone and Melbourne sighed blissfully. Her nearness, the light fragrance she wore, the warmth of her skin, her presence alone, was magical medicine, curing all megrims.

“In your dream, everything is the same but different? There is nothing fantastical, no flying green dragons or running through the halls of Parliament unclothed?” She looked so very serious Melbourne tried not to laugh.

“You dream of running through the halls of Parliament unclothed? A delightful notion I would have very much liked to see, once upon a time.”

“I did. I had to give a speech and there was no time to dress. My robes would not cover me.”

“And how was your speech received?”

“Quite well, I think. No one noticed I was naked and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.”

Melbourne studied that dear face, the perfect mouth with bowed upper lip, the new definition of her profile as she left adolescence further behind, those large blue eyes which conveyed her every thought and feeling. _This was reality, this was truth…this was life_.

“In your dreams,” Victoria continued hesitantly, “we are not as we are here? We are only minister and sovereign? There is no friendship, no warmth?”

He paused, searching for words to convey the mood, the tone of that misty place. “Yes, and no. I think perhaps we had been friends once, and the turning point was…when I turned you away. In my dreams, you walked away and kept on going, without looking back. You were, well, I suppose we must say friendly, kind, for why else would a sovereign call upon a broken old man? But…” he dragged in a long sigh. “No, we are not as we are in this life. But never mind that. Shall we explore this enchanted place? Will you show me all your treasures?”

It was Victoria’s turn to sigh. She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them with a bright smile. “Certainly. I abandoned my own tour the day I arrived. It was so very warm in all the rooms and I felt unpleasantly woozy. I nearly fainted or, worse, emptied my stomach in the Music Room. The green dragon nearly overset me.”

“That frightening?” Melbourne heard his own voice tremble with suppressed laughter at the outrage in hers.

“That _ugly_! But with you by my side I know it will all appear as ridiculous as it is, rather than merely offensive to the eye.”

“Oh now, ma’am, make no mistake, it is both. So Brummel opined.” They were both laughing in one another’s arms. When Victoria stopped, she laid her hand on his face.

“It’s likelier that dragons will fly around this palace, or that I will give my opening speech to Parliament as naked as the day I was born, than that there could ever have been the remotest possibility we might be as we are right now.” She looked very serious, almost stern. With an effort of will Melbourne pushed away the last traces of depression which had gripped him since the night.

“Parliament is to be seated in a summer session next month,” Victoria told him. Melbourne nodded.

“It will not be well-attended and perhaps that is the plan. They vote on a deceptively minor bill once more, and the fewer in attendance the greater chance it will pass.”

“Will you take your seat?”

“I will. Henry Holland was a long-time advocate of Jewish emancipation and had nearly passed a similar measure in 1840. When he died there was no one to take it up as part of their platform.”

“Does Mr. Disraeli argue it now?”

“Not at all. He’s in a precarious position and feels he cannot jeopardize his standing.”

“You firmly support it then, and advise me to do likewise?”

Victoria’s question was one of those which caused her husband to tread lightly. He had never sought to shape her opinions, only provide as much holistic information as possible to allow her own sound judgment to prevail.

“There was never a time I did not approve it. In principle I find the notion of a religious test for public office and civil responsibility anathema. That is why I pushed for Catholic Emancipation. The question is, whether the rest of the country feels the same.”

“But I can not always wait to base my own opinion on that of the majority, or that which is popular amongst my subjects. Sometimes it’s a matter of what’s right.”

Melbourne bit back a smile, his eyes glowing with tenderness at the sight of so much youthful idealism. No crown rested securely anymore, and he could not bear to remind her how entirely she _must_ base her own opinions, at least those expressed publicly, on the tide of public opinion. The trick was to read the mood of the country to maintain the appearance of benign prescience.

“We’ve invited Lionel de Rothschild and his wife to the Pavilion,” Victoria reminded him.

“One of a hundred or so expected to join us by the weekend, I think. He will fit in well. He’s connected to everyone and it’s time they acknowledged it publicly. 'If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain …’” He saw her tilt her head, smiling quizzically, trying to understand the reference. “Sir Francis Bacon, ma’am, but never mind. One of the many useless bits of information stuck in my head.  You will do as you think best always, for your instincts are good, and in this case there’s nothing much to be done. But I think it will pass in summer session. I will vote for it, which is not to say what _you_ should think or do.”

When Lehzen knocked at the outer door Melbourne rose from the bed before bidding her enter. She had warmed to him considerably over the years – if one could consider the least relaxing of her habitually stern expression any indication – and he had even, on several memorable occasions, won a full smile and once, even laughter. He worked as assiduously to court her as he did the Duchess of Kent, understanding the importance of these two adversaries to Victoria even when she herself did not.

The Baroness looked over his shoulder at Victoria and nodded approvingly.

“Drina, have you been resting? I am glad to see it. You must take time to do so every day, especially in this dreadful heat. You work too hard, no wonder you get sick.”

“You’ve been sick?” Melbourne asked. “More than once?”

Victoria merely shrugged, and her expression told him she was embarrassed.

“Ach, it’s nothing I’m sure. Everyone has had the ague, the Duchess has been down with migraine since we arrived, and most of the ladies complain of feeling faint from the heat,” Lezhen responded on Victoria’s behalf. It was unheard-of for the very proper Baroness to interrupt or answer on behalf of her mistress. Melbourne detected the merest hint of concern, no more, and decided only that he would watch out for his wife himself, to be sure she did not overtax her strength in this blast-furnace weather.

Victoria rose and accepted Lehzen’s help in smoothing her hair rather than ring for her maid and wait the time it would take for the girl to be found. Lehzen added a few drops of eucalyptus scented oil to the cool water she poured, and wiped the queen’s hands and face with careful efficiency as though she were a child. Victoria dipped the cloth once more and ran it over William’s face and neck with the same tender care. Lehzen blushed fiercely at the intimate act but Melbourne detected, as she averted her eyes, something like a smile softening her face.

**

_Royal Pavilion Grand Saloon_

They passed through the Grand Saloon, where Melbourne called Victoria's attention to a couch styled as an Egyptian river boat in patriotic homage to Lord Nelson’s victory in the Battle of the Nile in 1798.  From there they went on to Music Room surveying the domed ceiling covered in thousands of plaster cockleshells covered in gold. Nine great chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling and innumerable dragons and serpents cavorted around, Victoria trying and failing to count them all.  Melbourne took her hand in his and from memory led her to next fabulous space.

The long gallery was full of decorative tricks, cast iron made to look like bamboo, mirrors placed to reflect into one another, and the Chinese God of Thunder cavorting overhead. They paused to examine each of the statutes and her husband recognized gleefully the exact moment she understood what she was seeing. Chuckling, he guided her onward. The Banqueting room contained a massive dragon chandelier surrounded by six of his smaller brethren, muraled walls and large scenic canvases in _trompe l’oeil trellis_ frames.

“Palm? Coconut? Pineapple? I confess ignorance,” he wondered aloud, and his earnest sincerity caused Victoria to burst into helpless giggles. In the Saloon Victoria pulled at his hand, leading him to the great mural on one wall capped off by massive pearlescent figurines.

“ _Dragons!_ ” Victoria exclaimed, pointing up. “And the most hideous color imaginable. Like _bile!_ ” Against the red and yellow wallpaper they were indeed startling, Melbourne agreed, commending their lifelike demeanor.

“Lifelike? You tease me!”

“Not at all, ma’am. When Miss Eden comes around you may ask her about the many dragons she encountered in the East. She has described them in great detail in her letters.” Melbourne smiled blandly down at his wife, then lifted her fingers to his lips.

Pavilion staff, not so accustomed as their London colleagues, goggled at the spectacle of the Queen and her Consort strolling hand-in-hand, looking for all the world like any other couple and so devoted to one another. When their tour took them back around to the more informal of the drawing rooms, they encountered the Queen’s household, those ladies-in-waiting she had brought with her on the train. Amid them Melbourne saw once again that insufferable, infuriating woman he had thought he had banished. His sister and Emma Portman sat amongst the younger women, and Melbourne summoned them over.

“A most insignificant matter, ma’am,” he began, keeping possession of his wife’s hand. “But it seems necessary to replace one of your attendants.”

Victoria looked up at him, her confusion clear.

“One of my attendants? Why? Who?”

Melbourne hesitated, stepping back so that Emily and Lady Portman could join the conversation. He had not thought ahead, and now his mind raced, considering what reason he might offer that wouldn’t give Victoria reason for concern.

“I know she does not feel comfortable complaining, or appearing to put herself forward, but…Emily has told me young Lady Dalmeny has been most impudent to her. Emma has attempted to deal with it – "

“You understand, ma’am, no one wants to bother you with such a trifle,” Emma Portman chimed in, her eyes trained only on Victoria.

"But she really must be sent away," Lady Palmerston agreed. "It sets a bad example for the others."

Victoria shrugged, looking thoughtful. "That's fine. Handle it as you think best, Emma. Whatever's decided, convey it to the Lord Chamberlain and he can make the necessary arrangements. I think Sir Robert will be pleased to have another position to offer one of his supporters. He needs all those he can get on his side now."

 _As simple as that._ Melbourne was relieved to have it pass so uneventfully. The whole episode was as ridiculous as it was annoying. No stranger to bold women, and at most times in most places an enthusiastic admirer, he found this girl and her determined pursuit of a man four decades senior, her sovereign's husband, and with a late-earned reputation for fidelity, more peculiar than flattering. He was grateful to both Emma and Emily for going along so effortlessly, and desperately thankful Victoria had not questioned them further.

"If you'll excuse us?" Victoria dismissed them with a gentle nod and put her hand through Melbourne's arm. He followed her lead and they went back out of the drawing room and toward her apartments above the Entrance Hall. The children's nursery was situated in this block, along with a sitting room, dressing room and bedrooms for the sovereign and her husband. On the floor above, four rooms housed governess, dresser and two of the queen's maids.

As soon as they were inside, with the door closed behind them, Victoria turned and put her arms around Melbourne's waist.

"William, what was that all about? Why do you want that girl gone?"


	25. Chapter 25

He felt as faintly ridiculous as he always did in fancy dress, yet privately conceded that this was not as bad as some. The costume he had approved from a sketch was made in relatively subdued dark blue, with gold _Mehndi_ patterns worked in gold thread, an embroidered dupatta which bore a striking resemblance to the standard Court uniform. The long silk coat was not unduly heavy, made as it was for a hot humid climate, and the loose white silk pantaloons surprisingly comfortable. Miss Eden assured them that such a traditional _sherwani_ was authentic in every aspect.

Victoria wore a stunning gown meant to correspond to his, the bride to his Hindu groom. Whatever it was called, Melbourne thought the slim elegant profile exactly suited her, lending the illusion of height she desired and showing off her narrow waist to advantage. Her hair was loosely bound at the back of her head and some sort of gauzy golden veil framed her face.

The theme of the gala was, of course the orient and every costume, to a greater or lesser extent intended to replicate some fashion of India, Pakistan, Egypt and even China, in keeping with the Pavilion itself. Silk tents had been erected on the lawns, and the French doors in the galleries were flung open so that guests could stroll about unimpeded.

Every lodging in Brighton and the surrounding countryside had been rented by those who did not have accommodations at the summer palace itself, and within the Pavilion every one of the numerous rooms once allotted to the Prince Regent's friends was occupied by the more privileged guests.

Melbourne found he rather enjoyed standing beside Victoria greeting each new arrival. As little as he cared for the pomp and protocol and public display of life as the queen's consort, it was an entirely different matter to stand next to a beautiful young woman he was proud to claim as his wife. No one else had this privilege, he thought. No matter how many times they might kiss her hand, dance with her, address her in council or across a dining table, no matter how often Palmerston's flamboyant charm might make her giggle and blush, it was _he_ alone who had the honor of standing with her before the world. _Mrs. Melbourne_ , the name still tasted sweet, no matter how often repeated.

Marlborough and Devonshire arrived at the same moment, and it might have caused a minor crisis had not the rather easy-going Devonshire yielded place to Marlborough and his Duchess. She was, Melbourne considered, a rather unfortunate sight in a blindingly saffron-yellow sari while her Duke had chosen a vivid green outfit with large, absurdly curling slippers. Devonshire, by comparison, was relatively subdued in an intricately embroidered Mandarin costume.

Beaufort arrived with his Duchess, Wellington's second niece and the Duke's second wife, the first having been elder sister to this one. The scandal had simmered for years, the marriage potentially annullable because of consanguinity despite their seven children. She was a mousy little thing, with a vapid manner, and gave herself no airs as though in constant anticipation of rejection by society.

An endless stream of peers paraded past, each of them forced to bow to a mere Viscount, and Melbourne displayed his sweetest smile, his most congenial manner to make up for the ordeal and smooth their ruffled plumage. He managed to hook his finger unobtrusively through Victoria's on several occasions when there was a lull in traffic, and at one point she raised herself on tiptoes to press a kiss at the corner of his mouth.

They had several invitations, from those whose great manor houses were within a day's drive, which they would be honor-bound to accept in the weeks before returning to Windsor, and a reminder of each from those honored few. The Marquess of Salisbury would host them first at Cranborne Manor, a half day's journey by yacht, which he would send for them, and he reminded them of that when he arrived, his short, rather stout figure tightly encased in a long flowing garment vaguely reminiscent of a Muhammad shaikh. That visit would be for duty's sake alone, with nothing much to look forward to in a visit with James Cecil.

Melbourne thought he managed to keep Victoria tolerably amused with the _on dits_ and color commentary he provided, finding small amusing anecdotes about most of those who tried to outdo one another with their own consequence. When they finally abandoned their post to join the gala in progress, Victoria clung to his arm during their walk to the back garden. He steered her to an out-of-the-way alcove.

"How are you holding up, ma'am?"

She smiled up at him and made a little moue of discomfort. "My shoes are tortuous, but otherwise, fine. If I might kick them off and walk in the grass barefooted I will recover my stamina. And don't forget, I want to dance with you, Lord Melbourne." When she swayed into him Melbourne caught her about the waist and held her closely for a long moment.

"Forget, ma'am? Never!"

**

A dizzying array of strange foods had been set out on long table in one tent, and low cushioned benches surrounding round tables in another so they might dine in the fashion of desert tribes. Miss Eden and the Indian chef she had found both protested that such a scheme was not prevalent throughout the empire, but none of the planners had concurred, insisting that veracity was less important than illusion.

Melbourne surrendered her to her ladies and moved off to mingle with their guests while Victoria would sit where she could be approached by those who wanted to pay their respects and be rewarded by a few minutes of the stilted royal conversation she loathed.

An enameled, carved chair, supposedly a replica of the authentic dragon throne, had been placed on a dais to the west of the main outdoor pavilion. The Queen was positioned provide a dramatic tableau for all to admire, with the rays of a brilliant midsummer sunset at her back. The net effect unmistakably alluded to Mr. Blake's famous painting.

When Melbourne made his way back to her side, he saw at a glance that, dramatic effect or not, the fools had her sweltering in direct sun on a hot day. He stepped forward and extended his hand, bearing her off to find shade and something cool to drink. When he scooped up a handful of ice and pressed it surreptitiously to the back of her neck, she accepted it with a grateful shiver.

"'The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun'? Please, tell me that was not Miss Eden's idea?" Melbourne quipped, rolling his eyes.

"No indeed, I believe the…gentleman…from…an Egyptian mural," Victoria murmured vaguely. Her lids were heavy, and she was panting lightly.

Melbourne frowned and turned her chin up. "Are you ill? Those fools had you sitting in the sun, in this heat. Would you like to withdraw? I can send for one of your ladies to escort you."

"No, truly, I feel much better already." She turned her face to press a kiss into his palm and then stood resolutely. "And don't forget, you must dance with me."

True to his word, he would have. Melbourne did not take the floor readily. Although most of the limp which had shown itself after his stroke had resolved, he did not trust that leg entirely and was glad enough of an excuse to avoid the exercise. However, one could not, with propriety, hover over one's own wife without interruption, and Victoria had her own social duties to perform. He waltzed once with young Lady Harriet Ponsonby, Bessborough's daughter, a charming young lady who had much the slim boyish looks of her late aunt, and once with Georgiana, the Duchess of Somerset, who displayed such insouciant charm that one might not guess their unfortunate connection.

Melbourne mingled with his guests, all those present friends and relations. He had once told Victoria all the Whigs were related, and in actual truth most of the nobility could trace some relationship between them if they went back far enough. It was interesting to see whose grown children resembled whom, for few expected any but the firstborn to be the product of marriage, and once or twice he looked with vague speculation at someone known to be the son or daughter of a former mistress.

Once the sun had gone down and full dark descended, the air became tolerably cooler and those present accordingly began to enjoy themselves in earnest. Fireworks would be displayed at midnight and as that hour grew near he went in search of his wife. " _I want to dance with you_ ," she'd said for the first time as a very young, inexperienced girl, and since she'd given him the right, he never failed to close each ball with her in his arms.

Melbourne didn't see her in either tent, nor on the wooden floor laid down on the grass, now filled with dancers performing an energetic polka despite the lingering warmth. She was not on that ridiculous dragon throne, and she was not, as he'd half-hoped, comfortably seated in any of the alcoves set up for that purpose. He spied his nieces, both Fanny and Emily, and veered towards them.

"Uncle, we were searching for you. Mother –"

"Never mind that now, Fanny. Have you seen the Queen?"

The young women exchanged glances. "I believe she is behind –" Melbourne went in the direction she indicated, through an opening in the tent leading to nowhere in particular, save some high hedges which had to be accommodated during construction of the canvas pavilion. He could see little in the dark, but the area appeared deserted. Then a movement caught his eyes.

Both figures wore dark clothing, and they appeared to be locked in an embrace. He blinked disbelievingly when a glint of gold caught his eye. _Whoever it is, at the least I will have the pleasure of disrupting their tryst_ , he told himself. He took several long strides in their direction before he was sure. Victoria, leaning into the arms of his own brother-in-law, Palmerston's arms around her, holding her against him.

Melbourne frowned, and for only a moment considered stepping back out of sight and retreating. _I've done that before. Not this time._

He heard his own voice, almost unrecognizable, bark out the man's name in a harsh tone. _Ungovernable emotion, so long repressed._ Melbourne briefly remembered those few times Caro had succeeded in igniting the rage she equated with passion, and how sickeningly satisfying it had felt to lose control, how intensely emotionally painful the aftermath.

It seemed later as if his body moved of its own accord, some sort of latent muscle memory causing his arm to lash out, his hand to grip Palmerston's collar and jerk his head back from where it had been bent over Victoria.

"Thank Heaven you're here, man. Take her." The words didn't register; Melbourne knew only a white-hot rage that clouded his senses. He wanted to shove her out of the way but even in his deranged state, could not lay rough hands on Victoria, so instead he continued twisting, until Palmerston must push her back and turn to face him if he wanted to breathe.

"William!" He heard his name called, distantly, and ignored it, determined to obtain a clear target in the other man's face. "William!"

Melbourne's arm, stiffened in the death grip he retained on Palmerston's neck, was being tugged at, pulled down. He glanced behind him and saw his sister tugging frantically at his own sleeve.

"William, let him go and _help us._ Victoria needs you."

Emily had returned bearing a bowl of crushed ice and a towel, which she set aside before advancing on him once more with a martial gleam in her eye. Melbourne shook his head to clear it and focused on for the first time on Victoria. She was awake but listless, still leaning heavily against Palmerston's chest, and her eyes fluttered as she retched helplessly, doubled over in pains that caused her to moan, her balance still affected, unable to stand unaided.

Melbourne took the cloth Emily offered and wiped Victoria's damp pale face. She raised limpid eyes to him and attempted to stand on her own, while he shushed her with the mindless soothing sounds he might use for Lily. It was all he could think to do. "I thought – " he began, knowing how inadequate anything he might say would be.

"I know what you thought, you fool," Palmerston said irritably, tugging at his collar to hide what would soon be bruising.

"But I am glad you've finally learned how to hold on to what's important to you," Emily added. "Now let's get her inside without making a show of it. Your wife is ill."

An icy calm descended over Melbourne's mind. He set them each to a task – Palmerston would see to the fireworks display, for once it began it would provide useful distraction, while Emily would locate Cameron and together they would get Victoria inside unseen.

Rather than risk encountering any of their noble guests in one of the galleries, they took Victoria around to a low service door at the rear of the building. Even with her husband supporting her weight, her progress had been excruciatingly slow and faltering, so that Cameron finally picked her up in his arms while she flailed her hands against his chest ineffectually. No light from the many chinoiserie lanterns reached this far corner, so that they were well-hidden in shadows when Melbourne kicked at the locked door until its wood frame splintered and gave way.


	26. Chapter 26

Once the queen reached her room the women took over, Emily, insistent on taking charge, Baroness Lehzen all but pushing her out of the way, and then the Duchess of Kent, escorted up by Palmerston. He remembered that about her from the day of Victoria's gunshot wounds, that her foolish, flighty, histrionic demeanor was only a façade, or at least didn't tell the whole story. She could be as coolly competent as one would hope in times of crisis.  

The women shooed him out of the room while they undressed Victoria. They had not yet closed the door fully when he heard a sharp intake of breath, and Lehzen gasping Mein Gott, _Liebling_.

Pacing in their sitting room, Melbourne concentrated on breathing deeply, keeping calm. His hands were trembling when he poured two fingers of brandy in a glass, but there was no help for that. He tossed off the amber liquid in one gulp and poured again. _A simple upset stomach, something spoiled from being left in the sun – but she had eaten nothing that he'd seen. The heat then? Everyone blamed their ailments on the cold, rainy summer and then the sudden advent of unusually high temperatures. Female problems? Her courses were not regular, since the shooting when a bullet pierced her abdomen, narrowly missing their preborn child._

That, of course, was the thing he dared not contemplate. From an excess of caution, they had grown lax over time, both remembering the doctors' words that she had probably been left unable to conceive, both forgetting the warning that to conceive again could well kill her. It had been impossible to know the extent of damage to her womb, or how much scar tissue had been left as it healed, but certainly there was no safe way to carry another child to term.

Melbourne poured a third measure of brandy and this time held it in two hands, contemplating the bottom of the glass. Remembering how often in those early days it had been said that he made the new queen too dependent on him, recalled those same accusations resurfacing when he married her less than two months after Albert died. His lip curled in a sneer, remembering how harshly some had judged, not understanding.

 _You don't need me, Victoria, not the way I need you._ He had instructed her in the mechanics of government, schooled her on the business of constitutional monarchy, and if in doing so he had enlivened the lessons with colorful anecdotes, had humanized the institutions over which the girl queen reigned, it was no more than what came naturally, and came with the instant gratification of her silvery pealing laughter, the flattering attention she paid him, the clear favoritism she bestowed. But she – _ah, she had given him everything. She had given him life, and given him himself._

Melbourne had always loved and been loved by women – his mother, the Lady Elizabeth Melbourne, brilliant and beautiful and accomplished, fiercely dedicated to her children and to William, her favorite, most of all. Caro, his fairytale come alive – oh yes, they had loved each other once, but not enough, never enough. Those others, whose names and faces blurred into insignificance at this stage of his life. But always, they wanted more, more than he could give, more than he knew how to be. His mother wanted him to be more ambitious, more devoted to his own advancement; Caro wanted him to be more of a lover, more passionate and unrestrained, less reticent and less content to live a quiet, orderly life, _more_ , in the end, like her poet, although ironically even Byron had not ultimately been _Byron_ enough to keep her content.

But Victoria saw no deficiency. From that first morning she had looked at him with newly-opened eyes and imprinted on him, only him; she had fixed him with an adoring guess that measured all others against her Lord M and found them wanting. And having once tasted that sublime ecstasy, he knew he could never live without it.

"Lord Melbourne, you may come in now." Melbourne looked up from the glass he still studied and saw Lehzen beckoning him from the bedchamber doorway.

"Is she-" his voice cracked and broke. When he cleared his throat he could not speak past the lump in his throat, so he only looked at the woman with a plea in his eyes. She tilted her head and, reading the fear in his eyes, forced her thin lips into the shape of a smile.

"Lord Melbourne, it is all right. Drina is ill but not, _Danke Gott_ , critically so. The Duchess has sent for the Queen's physicians, but even by train it will take several hours to go to London and return. Lord Cameron has gone to bring back Dr. Ferguson and another."

"Henry Holland is here, for the ball. Has he been summoned?"

"I will see to it, Lord Melbourne. Go in to her now,"

Melbourne shook his head briefly, wanting only to go in, fearing to do so. "Come." She reached out her hand insistently, as though he were a child, and Melbourne took it and allowed her to lead him inside.

Victoria's hair, damp with perspiration, had been brushed back from her face and someone had tied a blue satin ribbon to hold it in place. Her beautiful blue and green Indian gown had been replaced with a thin white lawn nightdress. She looked like a child, a maiden of fourteen or fifteen, impossibly far from five-and-twenty. Her mother sat on the bed beside of her, stroking her forehead, and glanced up only briefly when Melbourne approached.

Victoria raised her large, dark blue eyes to her husband and smiled, then giggled softly. "You look very well in that suit, Lord M."

Melbourne looked down, puzzled, and saw that he was still wearing the Indian costume. It had not occurred to him to change; there had been no time. He grinned in return. She patted the side of the bed opposite her mother and obediently he sat, trying to disturb her as little as possible with the motion.

"My beautiful, beautiful husband, the most handsome man I have ever seen," Victoria whispered, her voice low but not so low as to escape the hearing of those around them. Melbourne found he didn't care, but the Duchess did.

"Drina, please. You are not alone," her mother gently chided.

"Mama, I don't care. I will say what I wish. There might not be time to do otherwise." Victoria's voice was still very soft, as though the mere act of talking exhausted her, but her tone was firm. Melbourne's breath caught in his chest at her words, and her mother gasped audibly.

"Leave us, please. I wish to speak to my husband before Dr. Holland arrives. Mama, you must be hostess in my place. I do not wish my absence remarked, but if it is…blame the dinner, I don't care. Only not –"

Each of the women curtsied and withdrew with varying degrees of hesitation, and when they were alone Victoria, rather than talking, merely moved so that her head rested on Melbourne's chest, her arm about his waist. They sat in silence, Victoria making small sighs of contentment – _or distress?_ Melbourne wondered – and he afraid to speak, not knowing what to say.

"Victoria, are you – do you think -?" he tried haltingly, hearing the raspy edge in his own voice.

"I don't know, truly. I have not felt entirely well for the past few days, it's true, but neither has anyone. I know it sounds foolish but I'm not sure whether I am only suffering an especially bad onset of my courses, or whether…it is something else."

"There is bleeding then?" He asked bluntly, not sparing any tact, thinking the body he held could have no secrets from him, it was part of him, the most precious part.

Victoria nodded shyly. "Just a very little."

"Then that is the explanation. Your female cycle is awry, we know that, and this is merely an especially difficult onset. Dr. Holland will confirm that, and Cameron will have gone to London for nothing, save to give the physicians a holiday by the sea." Melbourne sounded, to his own ears, quite firmly resolved. _Of course, because I speak the truth._

"If it is something else – William, please, I must say it. We have not talked about this since I was married to Albert. Now everything is changed." Victoria's voice was stronger, she spoke more loudly and with more firmness than she customarily used between them.

"As my Prime Minister, you would agree. As my husband you can do no less. It's necessary to have a succession plan and regency in place, you _know_ that. Anything can happen to any of us without warning, and for me, it's more important even than a will. There must be no uncertainty, which would lead to unrest. You know what I'm saying is true."

He did know, of course. The old King had avoided a regency in his wake only because of his determination to live long enough to thwart the ambitions of Conroy and the Duchess, but with an underage sovereign, a regency was obligatory. Still, he hated the very idea with every fibre of his being.

"It goes without saying that you are sole guardian. But you must also be sole regent. I will consider nothing else, and it must be drawn up on my order, signed and witnessed, as soon as we can do so. Fortunately, Sir Robert is here, as is Baron Lyndhurst. This must be done tomorrow morning. You will call them together. I will see them myself, no matter the hour or condition."

"Even if they agree to name me, ma'am, they will wonder at the urgency. A seaside holiday, the morning after a ball – it will be said that this waited for Parliament to be recessed to slip it through. And you know, even my friends will hesitate at a sole regency because of my age."

"We will draw it up and I will affix my signature and Lord Lyndhurst the Seal," Victoria stated firmly. "Sir Robert will present it when they reconvene to pass the Jewish Emancipation bill. There will be no co-regent, but if they ask for a secondary regent, to take over if you are incapacitated – what then? I do not trust anyone else entirely, to look out for the children and raise them as we wish."

Melbourne hesitated a moment. He had given the matter a great deal of thought in the past, albeit in an entirely different context. Who indeed was so devoid of worldly ambition, that they would not view a child king a pawn to be manipulated for their own advantage? Who was essentially immune to outside influence, who had no family name and estate to advance, no past, present or future alliances at play in such a game of thrones? And who could resist the manipulations of the Hanoverians, the Coburgs, the Belgian King? Everyone who counted would be opposed, but that was no bad thing because it would be mitigated by factions, each backing their own candidate. Melbourne said the name, and stated his reasons. Victoria's first surprise faded quickly as she accepted his reasoning, and even managed to smile a little.

"Won't _that_ set the fox in the henhouse? I vow, Guy Fawkes couldn't have blown up the government half as well."

"And now we can talk of something else, anything else," Melbourne said, tightening his arm around Victoria's shoulders. "Because this is all moot. This is only an especially bad onset of regular female courses. You will stay abed eating violet pastilles and chocolate bonbons and an abundance of fruit ices and I will be at your side, brushing your hair and reading to you from Miss Austen's novels and you will grow fat and spoiled by the time your inconvenience has passed." Victoria was laughing softly at his words, but stopped when she heard him finish. "And we will have learned our lesson and take no more risks with your health."

When the first physician arrived, their own friend Henry Holland, Melbourne was reluctant to leave.

"I must examine her, William. She will not want you present for that. Give her privacy, let her have her dignity," Holland said in a kindly voice. Melbourne flushed, understanding what sort of examination he intended. 

"I am no obstetrician, but I understand those have been sent for. I only want to be sure she is not haemmoraghing and check for signs of uterine rupture." Those words caused Melbourne to blanche visibly, wincing at the thought. "Have you – do you have normal marital relations? Do you take any precautions? Time your intercourse to the phases of her cycle? There are ways –"

"I _know_ all that, Henry. And yes, we did try, but she is so irregular, has her courses sometimes months apart that it is impossible to be sure." He heard his own words, knew he was pleading his own case in vain.

"I think we are getting ahead of ourselves. If she is as irregular as you say, and with the damage we know she sustained, this might only be an especially troublesome cycle. Let me look at her only to ensure she's in no immediate danger and then we will wait for the specialists." Holland clasped his arm and squeezed reassuringly, and then turned away to begin scrubbing his hands at the basin prepared for him. "Go," he said once more, over his shoulder.

Melbourne wandered into the main corridor where he found his sister and brother-in-law loitering. Emily hugged him wordlessly and Palmerston, after shaking his head, drew him into a brotherly embrace.

"I vow, we are all in a tizzy for what's nothing more than the curse of all women," Emily spoke in a calm, intentionally matter-of-fact voice that only frightened her brother more. "Poor little thing! It will be mortifying if she sees our long faces and know we are all privy to such intimate matters."

"Now go to the nursery and show those children the fireworks. I heard them protesting their bedtime quite vociferously. Your daughter especially. She is her mother all over, that one, and knows how to exert her authority."

Emily pushed at Melbourne, and tugged at her husband's arm. For the second time, Melbourne knew himself banished.

**

When he returned, Victoria was curled on her side, hugging a pillow, hair spread out over the white pillowcase in a dark current. Baroness Lehzen slept on the chaise, gently snoring, still fully clothed and, Melbourne suspected, ready to rise in an instant should Victoria need her. He felt himself superfluous, worse, a burden, a threat if it was his own manhood that injured her. He pushed that thought away as he did the bile rising in his throat. _So innocent, so precious_! Melbourne's hand reached out to gently stroke her face, but he checked the motion, unwilling to disturb her rest. But Victoria opened her eyes and reached for his hand.

Putting a finger to her lips and glancing toward Lehzen, Victoria pulled him down so that he was forced to sit on the side of her bed. She shifted to make room for him beside her. He shook his head _no_.

"Sleep, Victoria. I will not disturb you," he whispered so softly she was forced to watch the movement of his lips.

"I cannot, unless you are with me." Those eyes, so pleading…how could he resist? But how could he not? It was his damned incessant need for her that may have put her life in jeopardy. Of course, he would not think to…to _interfere_ with her now, but he felt penance was owed, some penalty must be exacted if she was to emerge unscathed. But he could not resist her pleading eyes, so he laid down carefully, still fully clothed in the ridiculous costume. Victoria's fingers began opening the long silk coat, and he stopped her.

"Don't be silly, this is lovely but cannot be at all comfortable to sleep in. You have your breeches, and Lehzen will not be shocked by the sight of your chest." Victoria huffed a small silent laugh. "The laborers who constructed the tents were shirtless and every lady was at the window gawking." She succeeded in opening the last frogged closure and slid the heavily embroidered coat free of his shoulders. "There! Isn't that more comfortable?"

Victoria lifted his arm and lay her head on his shoulder, then nestled against him with a small sound of contentment. "Now I can sleep," she murmured. He tightened his arm about her, but averted his face so she could not see the pain and the guilt in his eyes.

**

The heavy dose of laudanum Holland had given her allowed Victoria to sleep without discomfort until dawn, but when she awakened the cramping returned, seemingly intensified by brief respite. Melbourne had not slept at all, and arose when she began tossing fitfully as the sky grew light. Lehzen pushed him out long enough to tend to the queen's needs, and when he returned, joined her caretaker in coaxing her to try at least a sip of tea, a crust of toast, a bite of pastry.

"You also, Lord Melbourne. You must eat something to keep up your own strength." He looked up and saw the Duchess of Kent watching him. Her expression was neutral but he sensed some new disapproval, and thought he understood the reason.

Word was sent that the train was newly arrived from London, and together they waited in the Queen's apartments. Shortly after seven the London physicians arrived, having been roused from their beds in the wee hours by a courier who did not take no for an answer. Each was willing enough to attend to the Queen, and knew without being told their mission must remain shrouded in secrecy. Cameron had brought Robert Ferguson, officially appointed physician-accoucheur to the Queen, and two new medical men, recommended by Holland, James Henry Bennet and his colleague John Churchill, both more generally expert on women's health issues. For good measure, his younger brother, was summoned as well, for there was no one in whom the elder Cameron had more confidence, a confidence Melbourne shared within limitations. Daniel Cameron was now a fully-fledged surgeon, his training and apprenticeship complete, as universally rude and abrasive as his brother was easy-going and genial, but with undeniably talented hands and an utter fearlessness with the tools of his trade.

Since the Semmelweiss theories on cleanliness to combat infection had become accepted practice, ample quantities of soap, water and acrid-smelling disinfectant were provided and the men removed their coats and vests and wrapped themselves in long bleached linen gowns before approaching thoroughly scrubbing nails, hands, arms to the elbow with brushes and great quantities of lather.

Melbourne stood back and tried not to wince, tried not to imagine the hands of these men, the instruments in their bags, violating Victoria's person.

Holland stayed without, maintaining silent vigil with his friend William, while the specialists conducted their examination. Despite the laudanum and a supplemental dosage of morphine elixir, Victoria's moans turned briefly to sharp cries of pain during the closed-door examination, while those in the outer chamber pretended not to hear. Unable to endure his own helplessness, Melbourne rushed out of the apartment…and nearly collided with several of the Queen's ladies hovering about, interrupted at their obvious eavesdropping.

One of them explained that they had been given no instructions for the day and questioned whether Her Majesty required them. Melbourne answered sharply, more sharply than he intended, with a simple _no_ and sent them on their way. As soon as he was assured they were retreating to the public rooms on the lower level he turned the other direction, no clear destination in mind, only within summoning distance when he was needed once more, yet far enough distant he could not hear her distress.

He stepped mindlessly into a small alcove, a curtained seating area with a view of the grounds beyond and, in the distance, just a sliver of sparkling blue sea, and rested his forearms and head against the wall.

"Lord Melbourne." When he heard his name spoken Melbourne raised his head at once, ready to return and hear whatever the doctors would say. The girl – _that girl_ – had not left with the others, was now intruding on his scant privacy. She stepped in, allowing the curtains to fall closed behind her so that they were alone in the confined space. They stood so closely together that her bodice nearly touched him, and he looked at the girl closely, unable to assemble his thoughts in an orderly sequence. Lovely, certainly, with a great look of her mother as he recalled Catherine Stanhope, and with her mother's self-confidence, a natural aspect of being born to one of the oldest titles and fortunes in England. This one carried herself with an awareness of her own beauty, which was considerable, and naturally – or contrived, he cared not – seductive manner.

"What?" Melbourne spat out the word. "What do you _want_ with me?"

She reached out with both long, elegant beringed hands and laid them on his forearms, stepping, if possible, even closer. "You are upset. Everyone knows the queen is unwell. Let me keep you company." She licked her lower lip with just the tip of a small pink tongue – _a deliberate signal of her willingness? As though she could be more obvious?_ – in a gesture so similar to Victoria's own, in her case entirely natural for his precious girl used no such sluttish wiles. Enraged, Melbourne pushed this girl against the wall roughly.

"Leave me alone. I don't want you, and I don't want you at Court!" He kept his voice low, and it came out as a harsh growl, warning of danger. She did not flinch or tremble, only tightened her grip on his forearm and lifted her chin as though accepting a challenge. Melbourne felt himself about to lose all control once again, and pinned her back with his bent forearm across her shoulders, not caring whether he frightened her. Then she did react, coughing a little from the pressure on her windpipe.

"Leave. Me. Alone." He spat the words. When the curtains shifted they both looked up and saw Cameron, his great height and wide shoulders blocking any view of the corridor. The Irishman's handsome face was as placid and amused as ever, even while his eyes quickly assessed the scene before him.

"May I be of assistance?" Cameron inquired casually, and a flicker about his mouth even hinted he might smile.

"Get this woman out of my wife's presence. Out of Brighton. _Away from us."_ Melbourne spat the words with derision and then, only belatedly, recognized Cameron's unquestioning allegiance to Victoria, and by extension to her husband. He was aware of a rush of gratitude for the man, too often unspoken and frequently clouded by the stiffness he felt toward this man who so openly worshiped his wife. The former cavalry officer nodded once, genially, and put a hand on Melbourne's shoulder.

"Go to her. They are asking for you. I'll take care of this." Lady Dalmeny, the accredited beauty, so accustomed to homage from every man she encountered, stood forgotten by both. Melbourne walked out wordlessly, knowing he could trust Lord Cameron to handle the matter he left behind.

Their report was inconclusive, at the same time it was deeply unsettling. Her Majesty might be having an unusually difficult unset of menses, or her body might be attempting to expel the product of conception. Her Majesty might face several miserable days, even a week, confined as many of the weaker sex were to her bed to deal with "the curse of Eve" - Melbourne grimaced at the absurdly misplaced religiosity and noticed Daniel, now Doctor, Cameron made no attempt to hide his snorting laugh of derision. Or Her Majesty's traumatized, and now probably scar-ridden, uterus might fail to expel its unwanted contents and instead continue to grow until the inflexibility of scarring and adhesions caused a rupture. Or – and their droning unison voices went on and on, saying nothing, interminably.

"Cameron, Her Majesty was saved once by your timely intervention. Is there an operation you can perform to bring her safely through without waiting for – as they say – nature to determine what might be a fatal outcome?"  Once again Lord Melbourne felt cool clarity descend, calming his overheated emotions and allowing him to process information logically. It had been that way in the past, that night in 1834 when the great fire consumed Parliament, when some other crisis triggered mindless hysteria in some and a great push to act recklessly in others. He had been called dispassionate, criticized for what some saw as an uncaring detachment, but it was the only way he knew to silence the cacophony in his mind and resist the pull of outright madness.

All eyes turned to the youngest professional among them. Henry Holland, Cameron's mentor, only a few years older, looked likewise at his former protégé, his own expression curious but not hostile.

"If we had a way of seeing within the body, then I'd say yes, absolutely. But to open her up not knowing what we would find, what sort of scarring might have caused the organs to adhere to one another – we might end up gutting her, only to lose her on the table anyway." Dr. Cameron, his hair now cropped short with no attempt at style, ran his hands over his head as he spoke blunt, even crude words, with none of his colleagues' polished delivery. Whether because of his emerging renown as the man who could pull of surgeries others thought impossible, or in spite of his apolitical lack of deference, or due of other talents, not as obvious but more highly-sought, he was becoming _the_ medical attendant of choice in the highest echelons of society.

Cameron surprised the assembly by asking for drawing materials. When these were brought he set to work and produced a surprisingly accurate depiction they all recognized. In curt syllables explained the original injuries – the baby a month from full term, inverted in the womb so that her head was down, little space for a bullet to pass unimpeded through the abdominal cavity. He drew a sweeping arc with the charcoal he held, indicating the trajectory from entry high on the Queen's shoulder, through her chest area where a lung had been nicked, then - so he strongly suspected- just grazing the top of her uterus, damaging or even severing one of the two Fallopian tubes before lodging in the muscle of her lower back where it joined her hip. When he'd removed the bullet he had probed its path as far as he could to inform his opinion.

"If you're religious you have to believe that divine intervention of your God saved the child. Me, I just call it dumb luck," Cameron said, tapping his finger on the crude drawing of an infant's crossed feet pressed against the wall of the oblong shape which confined her. "The bullet probably just scraped the muscle of the uterus, starting contractions at once, but I suspect it went deeper because by the time the queen got to us her amniotic sac had already completely drained which – and I'll defer to you fellows – seems precipitous."

"Indeed. I was called to attend," Ferguson intoned, "and although by the time I arrived labor was far advanced, the Queen had lost a great deal of blood and all amniotic fluid, I suspected then there was unseen trauma."

"If you only surmise the extent of this injury, how did you treat it?" Melbourne wasn't certain how many details he wanted, and his memory of that time was impaired beyond recall due to the stroke, but he felt certain there was something he needed to understand fully.

"They didn't," Holland offered. "Am I right? The uterus near birth is marvelously constructed, resilient organ which takes a battering we can't even imagine. And in most cases, under normal circumstances, its rich blood supply enhances its self-healing properties. If what Cameron surmises is accurate, which I have no reason to doubt, the injury healed itself. Normal post-partum binding exerts pressure on the uterus to staunch excess blood loss, and it would have had that same effect on an artificial injury. Had it been necessary to intervene surgically to deliver the baby, we might have seen and sutured the tear or possibly determined removal was safest. But since the birth proceeded on its natural course there was no need."

"Er…His Royal Highness was fully apprised of the potential for long-term consequences and warned that the Queen must not have more children. He gave every indication of understanding, and his willingness to comply. Perhaps that information was not properly conveyed at the time of your marriage, sir--?"

Melbourne turned away so they would not see the heat rise to his cheeks. "I knew, we knew," he muttered. "We took precautions."

"Apparently, not enough," one of them said in response. His back was turned so he did not know who spoke – _if anyone had, or if instead it was the voice of his own conscience._

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"We wait," was the unanimous answer.


	27. Chapter 27

A great storm came and went. Crashing through the harbor, it upended pleasure craft and fishing boats alike, causing great devastation for those who earned their living from the sea. The Queen personally sent her prayers and a pledge of significant monies from her personal funds to rebuild and replace the lost income of those affected. Distressing reports came from Ireland, of flooded fields and farmers unable to plant, and even more frightening, of crops, once in the ground, affected by the potato blight which had so recently crossed Europe and the Channel. The two weeks' severe heat were quickly forgotten when once more dull steady rain fell, and when the skies cleared, left the air as cool as autumn in mid-July. There were reports once more of Chartists assembling and making their grievances known. The entire country seemed to be holding its breath, that summer of 1845, awaiting with dread some unknown catastrophe of epic proportions.

Within the summer palace at Brighton, the atmosphere was, if less grim, then carefully subdued. None wished to show Her Majesty what Lady Portman called a doom-and-gloom face, but neither did undue gaiety seem appropriate. Most of the ladies-in-waiting, those whose appointment was owed to the solid Tory politics of fathers and husbands, had been dismissed from duty and allowed to return to their homes. If one in particular was absent sooner and with less notice than the others, no one remarked. Only those remained who had offered to do so, those who had served the Queen longest and were considered to have crossed the threshold between duty and friendship, Emma Portman, Charlotte Canning, a Whig and a Tory so there could be little cause to protest undue influence.

Victoria wanted urgently to leave the Royal Pavilion and never return, to shed all memories of what now seemed an accursed place. She could not travel – the physicians unanimously vetoed such an outlandish suggestion – and so she remained, surrounded by those whose discretion was assured by friendship and loyalty. It was given out, when she did not appear to see off those lords and ladies who might otherwise expect such a mark of consideration, that Her Majesty had suffered a touch of the ague which had earlier swept through her household, marked by a low fever and general malaise, and wished, from an abundance of caution, to avoid transmitting the disease to those guests who might otherwise disperse it throughout the island.

As the physicians jointly opined, they could do nothing but wait. Strong emotion, once peaked, can not be sustained indefinitely. Lord Melbourne was no less fearful for his wife's health, the queen herself no less filled with breath-holding dread, yet a deceptive normalcy soon took the place of rank fear. A lull in which time seemed to stand still, they could do nothing with the enforced isolation and idleness – for she was most strongly discouraged from taking to her feet more often than strictly necessary, and then only to make gently-paced tours of her own apartment to maintain circulatory health – except live in the moment.

With those few ladies in attendance who were considered more friends than subjects, no particular decorum remained and Lord Melbourne lounged gracefully at his wife's feet, the other women dispersed gracefully about, looking for all the world like a pasha in his harem, so Emma Portman observed. He entertained them all with stories of those days of Whig glory at the end of the last century, some handed down from his mother and others experienced firsthand.

 _Lady G – the Duchess of Devonshire – cost her husband_ _£1,000,000 in gambling debts, but that in days when everyone played deep. Lord Stavordale once won_ _£11,000 on a single hand. G was the most charming, least meddlesome, of Mother's closest friends. Mother considered her too emotional but she cherished their friendship nonetheless, guarding Her Grace's reputation where she could. Not that Mother was anyone's duenna…_

_Religion knew its place then and nobody gave it excessive thought. This world was far too absorbing and enjoyable for anyone to give much thought to the next._

_The Harleian Miscellany – that's what wits called the Countess of Oxford's brood, for their various fathers. My mother? Ah, such a woman will never be seen again! Miss Eden once commented that she found it quite remarkable how fond we all are of one another, considering how little we are related._   And with that he affectionately bussed Emily Temple's cheek. _Em followed in Mother's footsteps and turned out all right._

On rumors of a potential Irish famine. _In '31 likewise it was predicted half a million would starve, and yet they continue to plague us today. One sees certain afflicted counties at their worst and extrapolates that to the whole. 'Not a potato in the land unaffected,' they told me then, but I was on the ground and it was only more cause to inflame the revolutionary temper._

Only Emma Portman was of an age to remember, albeit dimly compared to William Lamb, the people and times of which he spoke. She chided him gently, affectionately, cautioning him to mind his tongue lest the young people present form an entirely unsatisfactory and uncharitable view of their generation.

Unexpectedly, it was the Duchess of Kent who spoke in his defense. "It was the most exciting time imaginable to be alive. All of Europe knew and emulated the English, their manners and graces. Ach, they knew how to live life and appreciate its beauty. As a girl I wanted nothing more than to marry an Englishman. Now, we do not see such style, such  _joie de vivre_. Drina, your Lord M is the most distinguished ambassador of those times. The rest I see nowadays– " she waved her hand with an elegantly dismissive gesture, "smell of the manufactories, positively reek of commerce or the pulpit and I do not know which is worse."

Victoria's soft fingers teasing his curls with unabashed affection, and his own hand encompassed her narrow ankle, running a thumb over the high arched inset of her small foot – they were not shy about such displays of affection amidst this intimate group.

Sometimes, usually with the arrival of that day's dispatches, brought by train from London, talk turned to politics and world affairs and the ladies would wander off in search of better amusement. Then Lord Melbourne would be more serious, although never losing his gift for aphorism.

_Durham was the worst, and one I would not want to confront man-to-man. He quite despised me and lacerated me publicly at every opportunity._

_I don't begrudge a man his opinion, certainly not when in opposition to mine, but his ferocity was something to behold._

Melbourne's political sensibilities had long been conservative, for all he stood on the side of the Liberals. He had devoted himself to maintaining the status quo in resistance to the winds of change sweeping Europe, hoping only to provide his country with the stability it needed to navigate stormy seas. That change was inevitable, he accepted; that it must come willy-nilly, for its own sake, disrupting and overturning all that came before, he had earnestly hoped to refute. Now, suddenly, in his sixth decade, he found himself forced to examine more closely his every opinion, to revisit those beliefs which were most accurately aversions. He admitted that in his zeal to defray criticism he had remained too detached; in his conscientious effort to depress what some might call pretension he had in fact abdicated responsibility. Of course, he would never influence the queen but he must at least learn to see things from a Crown perspective. The demarcation between Crown and Government was clear and, like it or not, he now stood on the other side of that delicate equation.

"That young woman, William – Lady Dalmeny, the Stanhope girl – what was that all about? You never told me."

There it was. So much else had happened, he had hoped Victoria might forget. Emma Portman was the only lady within earshot and she discreetly took herself farther away, finding some task on the far side of the drawing room.

Lord Melbourne looked up at Victoria, studying that infinitely precious heart-shaped face, her wide honest blue eyes. She appeared calm, no trace of tension, but it was necessary she remain so.

"I don't know myself. It was peculiar in the extreme." He briefly described how the girl, after going unnoticed for years, just one of many honor attendants at court, began popping up to claim his notice.

"I think it would be plain why any women would want your notice. You are a very handsome man, and desirable…but you are right, it is peculiar that this interest arose suddenly." Victoria's fingers kept winding around locks of his hair, so he did not rise, keeping his head on her knee instead. They were on the great circular divan in the music gallery, where one of her ladies had been playing the organ previously, and it was that posture which prompted Lady Portman's comparison to an eastern sheikh.

"But did not some say that she could be the result of your connection to her mother?" Victoria continued, now tugging gently at his hair.

"'Some'? Hardly, ma'am. One, that I know of." He playfully gripped her wrist and withdrew it from his hair, moving up so that he was beside her and could look in her eyes. "And we know who that _one_ was. Unfortunately, a friend of Harriet Sutherland's and that's how speculation made its way to court."

"Do you have interest in her?" Victoria asked curiously, not averting her eyes. Melbourne kissed her wrist and then laid his head on her bosom.

"Not at all. In any capacity." It was quite true; he did not, and had nothing to hide accordingly. If Catherine – Lady Stanhope – had any such notion of paternity she would have told him, either then or later. It would have changed nothing; she was well-married and he had neither title nor fortune to tempt her. Theirs had been a mildly affectionate affair, based solely on mutual physical attraction and common understanding, so that the affair, while not transactional, was not entirely devoid of friendship and mutual regard. No grand passion, no heart-stirring love, merely the sort of agreeable relationship everyone in their set indulged without a second thought.

"Then what do you think she wants?"

"Ma'am, unfortunately there will always be those who seek to tear down what we have, and others who imagine they will bolster their own reputation by taking something of the Queen's. It's over, thankfully. Cameron will handle the situation – since we haven't seen him, I suspect he took it upon himself to escort her to her husband's home outside Edinburgh – and if he manages to distract her on the journey, well, he's well-equipped to do just that."

"William…" she began later. "I would understand if you need to take a – a temporary lover, for relief only, you understand – while I am unable to – to satisfy your needs." Her tone was so well-modulated Melbourne knew she had rehearsed the speech in her mind. Before he could stop himself, a laugh burst forth, the sound of genuine amusement. He stopped instantly when he saw the stricken look on her face.

"Victoria, my darling, my precious girl! That is very….er, understanding of you, and generous in the extreme. More to the point, extremely flattering." He pushed himself up, reluctantly leaving the soft cushion of her breast, and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Emma stood on the far side of the room, aimlessly moving some stems about in a vase – harmlessly, he hoped, since despite her husband's avid horticultural interest she had no talent for flowers, either growing or arranging.

"Emma, please go away," he called out, knowing he need not stand on ceremony for she would take no offense as he meant none. 

"I believe the succession houses sent up new grapes. I will go to the kitchen and request some, _and then return_ ," Lady Portman said smartly, swishing her skirts for emphasis as she departed.

"My dear wife," he said, turning on the cushioned divan to face her fully, picking up her hands and folding them over his own. "I will do no such thing. I will not see thirty again, or forty, or – well, you get the point. My _needs_ are not so demanding that I must seek _relief_ where I can. Those needs, my love, belong only to you, come from you, in response to you, and will be met – or not – with you alone. Are we clear?" He uncurled her fingers and pressed his face into her palms.

"You know," he continued, head tilted, without knowing it showing her his most engaging smile, one which revealed the boy he had been, the boy within. "There are many other ways we can love each other, besides that one beautiful act. I have shown you some and will take great delight in showing you others – those which are fit for you to know."

"Fit for a queen, you mean?" Victoria asked, looking up at him beguilingly from under her lashes.

"Fit for my much-loved wife," Melbourne responded, leaning forward to kiss her mouth. "And now, Mrs. Melbourne, I will go find our children. It should soon be time for the London courier to arrive, and if you wish I will join you in reviewing the dispatches. It is your turn to teach me the business of statecraft."

He saw the surprise in her eyes. "I don't mean to usurp you, darling. Perhaps it is time I acknowledge that I am no longer a peer. I'm not sure quite what I am or where I fit, but I would have you teach me to think from your perspective. All those traits which I mocked as a politician, you display to great advantage. _The good of the people_ , and what the Crown can do to alleviate suffering and promote the general welfare of your subjects."

"But William, you did all those things. You were a fine minister."

"My love, I followed Hippocrates' precept of _first do no harm_. I did not actively seek out opportunities to do good, and your heart leads you inevitably in that direction. Teach me, or at least let me watch you without imposing my own cynicism."

He rose and pushed his feet back into his slippers, for they were that casual, before strolling out of the room, pausing only to snatch a handful of green grapes from the bowl Emma carried.

**

The pains began on the seventh day of their idyll. Not like the pains of labor, Melbourne thought – not that he or any man could know – but these came on hard and quick, without the gradual increase he remembered from Liam's birth. All the queen's physicians were summoned and her bedchamber was turned into a surgical suite. Phipps, the household chaplain, came in with his kit and vestments and spent just long enough with the Queen to thoroughly terrify her with his talk of the hereafter. Lord Melbourne stood silently in the doorway, hands clenched behind his back to keep from tossing the man out on his ear. The comfort of religion was a good thing for a young monarch, he thought, but only if it _was_ a comfort.

After she was draped for modesty the physician-in-chief performed an examination and decreed that matters were advancing well. In the adjoining chamber the Duchess of Kent reclined in a chaise with the grotesque tubing of transfusion apparatus protruding from her thin arm.

"How will we know when…when it's safely over?" Melbourne asked Henry Holland, who stood beside him neither gowned nor robed. This was a matter for specialists.

Holland stared intently at this friend of his childhood, a man who'd supped at his parents' illustrious table more times than he could possibly count. The fine lines fanning out from Lord Melbourne's green eyes were more pronounced, and his sharply-etched cheekbones stood out in relief, casting shadows that made his handsome face appear almost gaunt.

"When…when all the matter has passed. They will examine it in – dammit, William, trust the process. There is nothing we can do now but wait. I know you are not a praying man, and neither am I, but at times like this one wishes…"

"Wishes what?" Melbourne said bitterly, turning away. "Wishes that once, just once, I could hang onto what matters?"

His thoughts went in the direction, finally, that he had veered away from for the past week. _The matter_. _The material. The products of conception._ It was his child, his and Victoria's, created from the love they shared, just as surely as Liam and Elizabeth were. Once, so long ago it was shrouded in the fog of time, Caro had delivered a near-stillborn girl, at least a month from full term – as Lily had been – and he had been handed that tiny blue-skinned bundle, such a frail scrap of humanity, to bestow a father's blessing while she still drew faint breath.

This too would be, would have been, their child. It could not be, and if he had been given such a solemn choice he would not risk Victoria's life for a single instant, but still, he resented the way in which their babe was denied even basic humanity. The realization hit him powerfully, that they were waiting for his baby to die and be expelled from her mother's womb, and he dropped his face into his hands and wept.

Matters concluded with almost frightening speed. There were no long-drawn-out cries from the Queen, and no opportunity to lend her his strength. Cameron left the huddle bedside and roughly shoved Melbourne out of the room, closing the door in his face and turning the key in the lock from the other side. He thought briefly of protesting and instead collapsed on the sofa, dumbly taking the brandy Holland gave him and swallowing it down. He could not look at that closed door, knowing that the next time it opened she would be alive…or not.

He never knew later whether minutes or hours passed while he waited, numb and withdrawn, until the door opened once more and his name was called. He looked up helplessly, unsure what was expected of him, and Henry Holland stepped forward in his stead. The second time he was summoned he rose and stumbled forward, cursing.

"It's all right, William. There was no rupture and she is not bleeding excessively. You can go in to her now."

"Is it – is it truly over then?" Melbourne asked hoarsely, seeking reassurance. The physicians nodded as one, bobbing their heads.

"Let me see," he demanded. Holland cocked his head, assessing, Melbourne thought, his mental state, while the senior physicians turned to one another, aghast. He saw a sheet-wrapped bundle laying on the same table which held black medical bags, and went toward it.

Only Cameron moved quickly enough to intercept. His hand on Melbourne's arm was not gentle, hard fingers pressed painfully into a bundle of nerves at the bend of his elbow causing excruciating pain. This brother was not as imposingly large as the elder, but he was every bit as well-muscled and far more ruthless. Melbourne saw him shake his head once, jerking it sideways, and knew from the cold grey eyes that resistance was futile. He also recognized that the action was a perverse kindness.

"There’s nothing to see. Go to your wife, sir." Cameron maintained his grip a moment longer and then released him with a gentle push, toward Victoria.

Her face was tear-streaked, and her eyes reddened, the lids puffy. He knew he must look the same. But, Melbourne thought, she looked alert and well, with none of the exhausted pallor he remembered from the first royal birth. He hesitated, wanting to sit beside her, for his legs were shaky and he was not sure they would hold him much longer, not wanting any motion of his to cause pain. But she slid over enough to make room, and make it clear that she was not in undue discomfort, so he sat, giving her his hand.

"How are you?" Melbourne whispered. Victoria only nodded, and sniffled once more, wiping her eyes impatiently. Then, _our baby_ , the words formed on her lips and it was his turn to nod, his turn to wipe the tears from his eyes.

"Our baby," he repeated. "Conceived in love and not a mistake, never a mistake, but not meant to be. Not at the risk of your life. I once read to you from _The Republic_ , do you remember?"

Victoria whispered _yes_ and they both thought back to those early months when she discovered a whole world, and a wealth of knowledge, much of it esoteric and not covered in a young lady's curriculum, under his tutelage.

"Plato alluded to his mentor, Aristotle, and to the idea of transmigration of souls. That perhaps souls come again and again to inhabit new bodies, experience new lifetimes, according to what lessons they must learn." Victoria clung to his hand, and to his words.

"If that is true…" she whispered hesitantly, "then our babe is not lost, he has only gone to find another body. His spirit might hover over us now, fluttering about like a little bird. _Goodbye, baby,"_ she intoned in a low, reverent voice. " _Mama and Papa love you_. Watch over us, darling."

_Little ghost, you're listening,_  
_Unlike most you don't miss a thing,_  
_You see the truth_  
_I walk the halls invisibly,_  
_I climb the walls, no one sees me,_  
_No one but you._

 _You've always loved the strange birds_  
_Now I want to fly into your world_  
_I want to be heard_  
_My wounded wing's still beating,_  
_You've always loved the stranger inside_

 _Oh little ghost, you see the pain_  
_But together we can make something beautiful_  
_So take my hand and perfectly,_  
_We fill the gaps, you and me make three,_  
_I was meant for you, and you for me_

 _You've always loved the strange birds_  
_Now I want to fly into your world_  
_I want to be heard_  
_My wounded wing's still beating,_  
_You've always loved the stranger inside_

_Songwriters: Jasmine Lucilla Elisabeth Van Den Bogaerde / Sia Kate Furler / Ariel Rechstaid_

_Strange Birds lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc_


End file.
